


Maybe It's Not Too Late - deleted/unwritten scenes

by GinAndShatteredDreams



Series: Maybe It's Not Too Late [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Grunkle Ford, Asexual Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Illness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Ideation, chronic loneliness, fiddauthor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 04:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9475091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinAndShatteredDreams/pseuds/GinAndShatteredDreams
Summary: Some unwritten scenesfrom thisthat have been bothering me1. A Difficult DecisionPicks up in part 15 when Stan and Fiddleford first arrive at the hospital and inquire about Ford’s status.  Stan is charged with making a tough decision about Ford’s medical treatment.2. Catalytical ContactPicks up in part 15 when Stan and the kids leave Fiddleford and Ford alone in Ford’s hospital room to talk about their potential relationship.  Ford worries that pursuing it will undo the progress he and Stan have made in mending their relationship and the progress Stan has made with his own self-esteem.  Just as the situation seems cleared up, a small gesture unearths an underlying reason for Ford’s hesitation.3. Just LivePicks up in part 16 after the problem of what to do with a melting shape shifter popsicle is resolved.  Stan and Ford attempt a fishing trip to the lake and Ford finally opens up to Stan about where he was and what he was doing when the portal reopened.4. Hey.  Thanks.Tate and Ford have a brief, but much needed conversation.





	1. A Difficult Decision

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Maybe It's Not Too Late](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6973243) by [GinAndShatteredDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinAndShatteredDreams/pseuds/GinAndShatteredDreams). 



> Warnings - Emotional breakdowns, suicidal ideation, hospital setting, mention and use of needles/syringes/IVs, blood mention, restraints, sedation, torture mention, ethical quandaries with no concrete answers, people doing the best they can to do right by others based on their own perceptions/what resources they have.
> 
> Why were these left unwritten/deleted:  
> I didn’t have the emotional energy to write some of this at the time.  
> It seemed like a lot to add to an already extensive fic (even though it doesn’t segue much from the main plot.)  
> It references things from journal 3 a lot more than I wanted anything in this fic to (since I was trying to stick with the ideas I had before it came out. But damn it just... piled on more complications that fit in so well with this fic.)

Stan and Fiddleford dragged their feet across the terrazzo, slogging their way to the musty elevator through a maze of scuffed walls and hospital halls.  Rather than glances or words, they exchanged yawns as the elevator whirred and clunked its way to the third floor.  The doors rumbled open and the mutterings of multiple conversations and pulsing of fluorescent lights greeted the pair.  The staff at the nurses station didn’t deviate from updating each other on patient statuses or leaning over computers with keys clicking below their fingers as the two old men lumbered by, groaning under their breath as their muscles punished them for their continued movement.  Why did room 325 have to be three miles down the hall?    
  
In what felt like twenty-thousand steps but was probably more like thirty, the two reached the faded wooden door to Ford’s room.  They’d barely stepped inside when a voice which struggled to express enthusiasm greeted them from behind the blue curtain dividing the room in half.        
  
“Grunkle Stan!  Mc Gucket!  You’re alright!”  Mabel squeaked, leaning around the curtain to examine the pair, her eyes underscored by darkened blotches.    
  
“Yep!  More’r’less,” Fiddleford replied, his words dragging to match the feeling in his limbs.  
  
“Yeah, just tired,” Stan answered with a wide yawn and added with a half-hearted chuckle, “and, well, I didn’t think it was possible but I’m pretty sure even the air around me hurts right now.  It’s been a long night.”  
  
“So how did you do it?  You did say you trapped it, right?” Dipper asked, somehow mustering more excitement than his sister as he peered around the curtain, “Is everything safe now?  Will the shape shifter be trapped forever?”  
  
“Whoa there,” Stan said, holding his hands up, “Don’t use up all yer energy babbling out questions.  We trapped it in that sap goo.  It’ll probably only last until summer, though.  We’ll tell you all about it later.  Right now I just need to know if Ford’s alright.”  
  
“Well, he…  he’s alive,” Dipper offered in a meek, uncertain tone.  
  
“The doctors won’t tell us much,” Mabel added, shrinking back in her chair, crossing her arms, and pouting, “They’re treating us like little kids who can’t handle the truth.”  
  
“Sorry, pumpkin,” Stan’s shoulders drooped as he made his best attempt at an explanation, “but you _are_ still minors and they’re just trying their best to look out for you.  I think if he was in real danger, they would have- or at least I hope they would have told you.”  
  
“Yeah well if that was the case they could have warned us or at least asked us about…”  Dipper’s annoyed muttering trailed off as he noticed his grunkle’s attention had shifted back to the curtain and what awaited him beyond it.  
  
With Fiddleford close behind, Stan edged closer, unable to concentrate on anything other than the lingering worry clenching his stomach.  He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to prepare himself for a vision he didn’t want to see.  His hand shielded his eyes from a slit of dull light bleeding through the vertical blinds and glinting off of the laminate floor, or perhaps simply gaining himself one more second before looking toward the bed to his right.    
  
As much as he’d tried to prepare himself for that moment, tried to imagine the scene, he wasn’t ready for it.    
  
Lying on his side, among the sheets and a speckled hospital gown, among wires and monitors and an IV taped to his arm, among the puckered, reddened scars, branding his wrists and neck and bared for any onlooker to see, his brother looked so small.  Gauze completely covered the visible sliver of his back and traced the ring of whitened hair among his tousled silvery-brown.  But he was breathing.  The rise and fall of his chest were slow and his exhalations nearly silent, but that minuscule motion untied the knots binding Stan’s heart.  Dipper was right.  He was alive.  
  
From the light gasp beside him, Stan could tell Fiddleford must have felt the same plummet of his heart to his stomach at the initial impact of the sight.  Or perhaps worse.  He turned to find Fiddleford evaluating the situation, studying the barely audible but rhythmic breaths.  His shoulders relaxed and he whispered as if any sound too loud might wake Ford, “Only times I ever seen him even sleep before was a few times in college when he wore himself out too much an’ fell asleep at his desk or curled up onna bed with all’a his clothes still on…  mosta the time he stayed up later’n me an’ was up earlier.”  
  
“Yeah.  To be honest, when we were kids he used the top bunk and I’m not really sure if he slept much back then.  If he did, he always fell asleep after me and woke up before, too.”  
  
“Dipper and I saw him fall asleep on you once,” Mabel added with a forced smile.  “But it was after you fell asleep and he was up again before you woke up…”  
  
“Wait, what?  When was this?” Stan asked with a quirked eyebrow.  
  
“When you guys were watching your old home movies,” Dipper answered.  
  
“I have a photo of it that I didn’t put in my scrapbook yet…” Mabel’s voice trailed off.  
  
“Wait, you got a photo?!” Dipper asked, “And here I tried to draw it!  Why didn’t you tell anyone you…  oh.”  
  
“Blackmail,” Mabel answered with a dismissive shrug.  
  
A genuine laugh bubbled up through the sludge of worry and woe churning in Stan’s stomach.  Clapping a hand on Mabel’s shoulder, he praised her, “I am so proud of you right now.”  
  
Fiddleford looked to the family with flattened eyebrows, sorry he’d brought up the topic and too tired to care about anything other than finding a doctor and learning more about Ford’s current state of health.  He knew that the family was kidding, that they were trying to cope in the best way they knew how, with a moment that could easily break them, that teasing each other was how most people interacted and showed they loved one-another.  But he also knew Ford never quite understood that.  He’d take it seriously and think there was something wrong with him, something they didn’t like about him, something he needed to change but felt he couldn’t.  
  
He crept past Stan and the twins and lowered himself into the cracked vinyl chair at Ford’s bedside.  Just as his bottom hit the seat, a dark-haired doctor rapped his knuckles against the open door, ducking to walk through its frame.  Fiddleford was back on his feet before the final tap.    
  
“Hello, there,” the doctor said in a friendly tone, “I see Dr… Spruce has attracted a few more visitors.”  
  
“Yeah, hi.  I’m his brother, Stan Pi- er Spruce,” Stan answered, extending his hand for the typical formalities of a greeting.  
  
The dark-haired doctor returned his handshake heartily and replied to the somewhat stuttered introduction with a knowing nod, “I’m Dr. Jules-”        
  
Before the doctor could say another word, Stan blurted out, “Oh good!  So, what can you tell me about my brother?  Is he gonna be alright?”  
  
“We believe that with plenty of rest and follow-up with physical therapy, he will make a full physical recovery.  However, I had hoped to speak to you about his mental health.”  
  
“W-what about it-?”  
  
Dipper interrupted before Stan could even finish, “We have a lot of questions too!  Like why…?  Argh why didn’t you at least tell us or ask us or or or… anything!  Argh I’m still piss- angry about it!”  
  
“Dipper?”  Stan raised an eyebrow, wondering what could have gotten him so riled up, “What is it?”  
  
Mabel clutched her brother’s arm, half trying to calm him and half wanting to expand on his rant.  In as much of a reasonable tone as she could muster she answered in his place, “He…  They…   When we finally got to come in here and see Grunkle Ford, they had these leathery strap-thingys tying him down…”  
  
“They had him restrained,” Dipper finally managed in more of a growl than he intended.  
  
Stan’s gritty answer thundered, "Wait, what?!  Why did they have to do that?" his words trailed off as he remembered seeing his brother suffer physical reactions to…  he didn’t really know.  He had some nightmare-inducing ideas but couldn’t be certain.  Whatever it was that his mind had conjured, projected, or remembered must have been horrific because he’d seen Ford’s desperation with his own eyes, heard him howl as if in unfathomable pain with his own ears.  If Ford had experienced something similar while under the hospital staff’s care, he couldn’t exactly blame them for…  No.  He still hated the sound of it and the image his mind flashed before him.  It was bad enough seeing him lying helpless in a hospital bed, he didn’t want to envision his wrists bound to the sidebars and…  and…   _Shit._ _The kids saw it.  Dipper and Mabel saw him like that!_  
  
Stan’s face reddened as he tried to hold back the rush of anger; to keep his yells from growing too loud.  The Doctor replied as calmly as he could, defending his stance while toning down any graphic details for the sake of Ford’s family.    
  
Between the yells and anger and questions, Fiddleford listened for the slumbering rhythm of Ford’s breaths.  With Stan’s initial roar, the beat faltered.  He leaned his arms on the bed’s side, watching for any further sign of movement or awareness but none came.  The anticipation washed away and he released his held breath in a sigh.  His eyebrows furrowed into a melancholy tilt as he gazed down at Ford’s tousled hair, stray strands draped over his forehead.   _He always said he hated the feeling of it against his forehead_ , he thought.  Not that it currently mattered considering the strips of gauze wrapped between his hair and skin, but still, seeing it stray from the typical upward curl felt like witnessing a mountain crumble to dust.    
  
_Should I fix it?_  His heart pounded at the memory of suppressing the desire to reach out and ruffle Ford’s hair on the nights he’d find him hunched over his books in their dorm.  It had always looked soft and plush and he’d always told himself to _shut up!_ at the thought.  What would his family think?  Or their professors?  Or the other students?  He’d wholeheartedly believed what the world around him had told him; that what he was feeling was unnatural.  He’d responded by pushing himself to find a girlfriend as quickly as possible, to fill the void with something “acceptable”.  
  
But now?  Now, thanks to the young twins currently defending Stanford, he knew better.  They’d welcomed the idea, had been excited about it even.  They didn’t care about gender or orientation, they just wanted their grunkle and himself to be happy.  But he still didn’t know how Ford felt about him or anything relationship related aside from his newfound discovery of asexuality.   _Would he mind if I-?  Or is he uncomfortable with being touched?  Does he even want a relationship?  As far as I knew he never had one before the portal and was adamantly opposed to the idea…  but what about while he was stuck wandering other dimensions?  Did he ever meet anyone?  Did he dislike the idea of having a relationship because he thought he had no other choice?  Because he really believed that no one could ever…”_ He couldn’t bring himself to even think the rest of that thought.   _Why did he believe that?  He mentioned he was bullied as a kid but was it really that bad that it made him believe no one liked him?_  
  
“He did what?” Stan’s concerned question caught Fiddleford’s attention.  
  
“If I didn’t see it with my own eyes I wouldn’t believe it.  The anesthesia we administered should have been enough to allow him to rest during the debridement of his wounds but he awoke, fought his way past nurses and security guards, and tried to leave.  He assaulted members of our staff, tore the stitches out of two of his wounds, and caused himself further blood loss by damaging his IV during a blood transfusion, not to mention the damage caused to the surrounding equipment and the room.  We were forced to administer powerful sedatives, most of which seemed to have little to no effect on him.  I do apologize but we felt restraining him was our only recourse for his safety and the safety of our medical team.”  
  
Stan gripped the wash station sink, struggling to keep himself upright, and gave a disgruntled sigh, “Yeah.  I get it.”  
  
Mabel slipped out of her chair and offered it to him.  He fell into it, the legs scratching against the floor under the momentum of his landing.  His hands cupped over his face, his elbows resting on his knees as he added in a muffled voice, “I’m sorry kids but I…  I get why they didn’t talk to you about it.  As much as you and I believe you’d be able to, the law isn’t going to let you make decisions for him and they had to do…  something I guess.”  
  
“Indeed.  We did what we had to in the absence of medical power of attorney,” Dr. Jules explained.  
  
“Well I’m here now and I got all the paperwork bullsh- I mean mumbo jumbo at home somewhere.”  
  
“Yes Mr…  Spruce,” the doctor sighed, lowering his clipboard to his side as his arms fell limp, “Alright, Look.  I’m going to level with you.  This entire hospital knows who you really are.  We’re going to do what we can for you and your brother, Mr. Pines.  Your niece and nephew removed his physical restraints and were adamant that we do not replace them.”  He turned to address the younger twins, “I understand it was alarming for you and you mentioned that something happened in the past which could make the presence of restraints detrimental to his mental health so we respected your wishes.  However, due to the need for further safety measures,” He looked back to Stan who’d lowered his hands and was currently looking up to him with exhausted eyes, blurred behind smudged glasses.  He took a sharp breath and continued, “We were forced to make the decision to chemically restrain him.”  
  
“WHAT?!”  Dipper shot up from his chair, his voice rumbling through the room and out into the hall.  Mabel looked to him wide-eyed, torn between mimicking his response and being at a loss for her own.    
  
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Jules apologized, “but we couldn’t allow you to visit him if there was any risk of a repeat of earlier events.”  
  
Dipper lowered his voice to respond but retained the indignant edge, “But we’re here!  We can help him if-”  
  
“No one can say that for sure,” the doctor defended in a calculated tone.  
  
“But!” both twins interrupted.  
  
“Whoa,” Stan said, lifting himself to his feet and raising his hands calmly to shush them, “Dipper, Mabel…  I know we’d all like to think we can help him through whatever this is but the truth is, the doc, here, has a point,” he clenched his eyes shut for a moment, the gravity of the situation pounding in his head.  He reopened them and spoke in a defeated grumble, “We don’t know if we could.  I know Ford would never do anything to hurt us on purpose.  And considering the entire reason he’s here right now, I know he’d put his life on the line for us, but, to be honest, we don’t know what it is he’s going through or if he’d even recognize us when it happens.  What if he thought one of you was that demon?  What if he thought you two were in danger and hurt himself?  I’m sorry, kids, but, we’re not professionals.  I think they did the best they could to keep all of you safe.”  
  
“Thank you Mr. Pines.”  
  
Another tap on the door interrupted the doctor's apologetic gratitude and a stout nurse peeked inside.  “Hi, I’m just here to take Dr. Spruce’s vitals and give him a bit of medicine to help with the pain…” she said with all the sweetness of a grandmother offering cookies to her family.  
  
“It’s alright, Nari,” the doctor addressed her in a lowered tone, “I’ve already spoken to them about everything,” he turned to Stan and continued, “This is one of our best nurses, Nari.  She’s been keeping a close eye on your brother’s vitals to assure his safety and well-being while he’s been chemically restrained.  However, now that you’re here, Mr. Pines, we need a decision from you regarding further treatment.”  
  
“So…  I gotta decide whether or not to keep him knocked out?” Stan asked, his eyes clenched shut as he massaged his forehead.  
  
“Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it.  We are going to need a decision quickly or the current dose will wear off.”  
  
“No!  Absolutely not!” Dipper commanded.  
  
“No, please!” Mabel begged.  
  
Fiddleford’s thoughts mimicked the younger twins but he said nothing, feeling as though it wasn’t his place.   _‘S bad enough that protectin' me is part 'a the reason he’s here inna first place._  
  
Stan looked to them, his expression raw and torn.  His glance focused on Fiddleford and followed his saddened gaze to his brother.  
  
“He needs the rest, Mr. Pines,” Dr Jules added.  
  
“And he won’t experience any discomfort or pain, I assure you,” Nurse Nari added.  
  
Stan pinched his nose and let out a heavy breath. “Fine,” he said despite the simultaneous protests from the younger twins, “One more dose for now.  And then…  I don’t know.  We’ll see.  I don’t like this.”  
  
Dr. Jules turned and nodded to Nari, giving her the final approval.  Fiddleford watched as she monitored Ford’s blood pressure, jotted down the results, then checked his temperature, heart rate, and respiration.  She spoke calmly to them, telling them the name of the drug which he couldn’t pronounce nor remember if he tried, and attempted to reassure Stan that he’d made the right decision.  It was kind but did nothing to help ease Fiddleford’s mind. _He’d hate this.  I know Ford would hate this!  But… no…  Maybe not.  Not if he knew it was for them.  To keep them safe…  No he’d agree to it but he'd hate it even more.  He’d hate that there’s a legitimate fear that he could hurt them._  
  
He cringed as she readied a syringe, struggling to hold himself back from stepping between her and Ford.  He hated this, hated it as much as he figured Ford would, hated it with a bitterness that burned through his limbs and left a rancorous taste in his mouth.  He looked away, first toward Stan who stood in shadow, his shoulders hunched and head hanging low.  Mabel had slouched back into her chair, her legs dangling motionless from the seat and her arms hanging limply over the armrests.  Dipper gripped his as though he might tear the vinyl pads away from their metal frame.  He’d looked away as well, teeth gritted and legs curled stiffly under the chair’s seat.  
  
Fiddleford’s fingers fidgeted on the bed’s edge as he turned back.  He instantly wished he hadn’t.  His stomach churned from the split second of witnessing the nurse administering the syringe’s contents through the IV taped near the crook of Ford's arm.  His attention focused back on his lightly closed eyes, on his matted sideburns, and those out-of-place hairs that bothered him as much as they would have bothered Ford if he could feel them brushing against his forehead.  
  
Fiddleford didn’t know whether what he did next would be soothing or unnerving to Stanford, had he been awake.  Regardless, he reached out and gingerly swept the stray strands of graying brown upwards into something resembling his usual style.  Perhaps it was selfish, he thought.  Perhaps it was only to ease his own discomfort, but he hoped that somehow it would be even a minor comfort to him, that it could allow him some shred of dignity in a situation he had no control over.   _It's no wonder he reacted the way he did when they were fixin' him up.  I dunno what happened to him over the years but I...  I remember him bein' a paranoid mess the last time I saw him, before I erased more a' my memories...  Havin' all 'a these other people have complete control...  that'd be devastating fer anyone!  Even fer someone who ain't been controlled and...  and TORTURED by a demon at some point!_  
  
“What…”  Stan asked, his head still lowered and his tone more downtrodden than ever, “What do you figure is causing him to…  do whatever it is he’s done?”    
  
Ford’s breathing hitched and Fiddleford stifled a gasp.  His heart jumped as Ford inhaled through parted lips, then sank again as he slipped back into the sleep-induced rhythm.  He chewed his bottom lip as heat rose in his cheeks and leaked from the corners of his eyes.   _What happened to you?  What were you subjected to that’s putting you through this now?_  
  
Dipper answered Stan’s question before the doctor had a chance, "It was probably just like what happened earlier.  I think he was having more flashbacks or hallucinating or something.”  
  
"We have to talk to him when he wakes up," Mabel added, her tone laced in concern, "He needs help."  
  
"What you mean, like a shrink or something?"  Stan asked.  
  
"Well we'd prefer to call them therapists," the doctor replied, "And yes.  There's no shame in seeking help or even needing medication.”  
  
"Eh.  I know.  I'm on it myself."  Stan admitted, shrugging as if trying to brush it off.  
  
Dr Jules continued, "Well, then you know the importance-"  
  
"Yeah yeah.  Look, we'll talk to him, alright.  I get it.  He's been to Hell and back.  I don't care how many degrees he has, he can't keep trying to get through whatever this is on his own.  Though, heh, I gotta admit I'm almost proud that trying to sedate him was like trying to take down an angry moose,” he attempted to joke but his faltering laugh failed to support it.    
  
_This...  This is it.  This is why we had so much trouble trying to talk him into getting to a hospital.  Shit.  This is why he wanted to go home and try to deal with glass and metal wedged in his damn back by himself!_  
  
After an uncomfortable pause Stan sighed and said, “Alright, here’s the deal.  No more drugging him after this.  I know it’s dangerous but I can’t…  I can’t do this.  I want him to have a say in what happens with his own treatment.  Maybe it’s selfish but I don’t care.  I hate seein’ him like this!  I know or...  I guess I don't know.  But I think he wouldn't want this.  We’ll deal with whatever happens when he wakes up as long as you kids promise to get out of the way if things go south.  You promise?”  
  
“Promise,” they spoke in unison, willing to do whatever it took.  
  
“Mr. Pines, there is a good chance he’ll refuse medication or therapy.”  
  
“Yeah I know.  I’ve been there myself.  But people forcing me into it made me worse for a long time.  I don’t know if I ever would have gotten help without it but I always wished I’d had the choice.”  
  
“What do we do if he does refuse and things get worse?” Dipper asked.  
  
“We keep trying.  If things get out of hand…” Stan sighed, “We probably got no choice but to go back to more of this.  I...  I know that doesn't make it much of a choice for him really but, I guess what I'm sayin' is that he needs to at least have the chance to accept help on his own terms.  He’ll get better faster if he actually wants to do it.  And if he doesn’t…  is it selfish of us to make him?”  
  
“That’s an ethical question I have often asked and I feel there are far too many variables for there to be one correct answer,” the doctor replied with a weary expression.  
  
“I guess we gotta just see how everything goes, then.”


	2. Catalytical Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up in part 15 when Stan and the kids leave Fiddleford and Ford alone in Ford’s hospital room to talk about their potential relationship. Ford worries that pursuing it will undo the progress he and Stan have made in mending their relationship and the progress Stan has made with his own self-esteem. Just as the situation seems cleared up, a small gesture unearths an underlying reason for Ford’s hesitation.
> 
> Also references [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9207284) but it's not necessary to read it.

Fiddleford fidgeted with the tapered end of his beard, watching as Ford smiled and rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in the ties of his hospital gown.  The decades old weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders.  He’d come clean about the memory gun incident and apologized.  Ford had accepted it without hesitation, with an apology of his own, with the sort of respect they’d shared between them so many years ago.  Everything was finally out in the open between them.  
  
Well, almost everything.  He still craved one more answer, one with the potential to alter both of their lives for better or worse.  Dipper and Mabel had arranged this precious time together for them for this exact reason and he refused to let it go to waste.  He fortified his resolve and sputtered out a shaky start, “Hey, Ford?  About what I said back at your place before all of this mess started..."  
  
“Oh.  yes.”  Ford's heart jumped to his throat, nearly choking him. _I never replied to him.  What do I do?  What do I say?_  
  
“Well, I really meant what I said.”   _I do love you.  I always have._  “I know it's not easy for you to believe it, but do ya' think, maybe if we take it slow we might have a chance?  Maybe after a while ya' could even move into the manor with me n' Tate?"  He bit his lip after the last bit.   _Oh why'd ya have ta' go an' say that.  You're gonna overload him again.  Let's take it slow.  Hey!  How about you move in with me?_  Idiot.  
  
“I'm not entirely sure Tate would be happy about that,”  Ford stalled, trying to make too many decisions all at once.  "I'm sure he's not terribly fond of me."     
  
"We've had a few good talks an' he understands what happened now.  I told him ya' tried ta' stop me from erasin' my mind an' he understands.  And he understands that his mom leavin' me wasn't any one person's fault.  Not yours or mine or hers.  It was pretty much just a build-up of things that happened over time."  
  
As he explained, Ford struggled to silence his thoughts, fought to focus on the deeply personal feelings and history Fiddleford was sharing with him about his ex-wife, his newfound asexual identity, and how things could have been different had he known more in years long gone, but the voice shouting at his thoughts to _stop being rude and shut up already so you can listen to him!_ only added to the din of confusion.  Every so often he offered a brief answer he hoped was appropriate.  At one point, he'd rested his hand over Fiddleford's fidgeting fingers in an attempt to comfort him only to question the appropriateness of the gesture and withdraw it when he reached no conclusion, when the touch felt both soothing and foreign and sent a warm shiver through him, when he couldn't sort out his own feelings from what he imagined Fiddleford was feeling, from what the various responses he could give might make him feel, or from what his brother and family might feel from any possible outcome.  
  
His hands clutched his blanket, his grip tightening around wrinkled flannel.  Every stitch and staple currently keeping his blood inside his body and every bandage and medical pad keeping infection out seemed to manifest as individual thoughts, screaming over each other to be heard.  Each cut, bruise, and scrape prodded him with pain, pulling at his nerves, demanding his attention.  
  
_Stop.  Please!  Shut up!  Stop overthinking everything!  You always do this!  And now you’re overthinking about overthinking!_  
  
“I guess it's like ya' said 'bout hindsight.” Fiddleford reflected.  
  
_Hindsight?_  Ford thought, _What did I say about...?  Something to do with reacting the best you could at the time?_  
  
“It takes a while," Fiddleford continued, "ta' git over all that time lost ta' not knowin' any better.  But I suppose, the sooner we start usin' what we learned toward what we still got left, the better.”  
  
He’d heard every word Fiddleford had said but it was as though they were in an interdimensional language and he had neglected to tune his translator to the right settings.  Even so, he knew what was coming.  He’d managed to delay the inevitable question temporarily, to buy himself a few moments to decide on an answer, but he’d lost those precious seconds to the sun glaring through the frosty window, the odors of disinfectant, stale coffee, and uneaten eggs, the stiff crinkle of the sheets against his legs, to his own indecision and mental incontinence, to the IV catheter piercing his skin, snaking into his arm, seemingly serving no purpose other than to add to the discomfort of the lumpy mattress, the ear-splitting beeps blaring through the hall, and the bunched up and backless gown clinging around his neck, exposing failings and embarrassments he’d rather forget.  Everything around him conspired against him, consuming his energy and overloading his senses.    
  
His mind worked out what Fiddleford had said and he managed to offer a sighed, "Yes, that's something I'm trying to work on myself,”  
  
“So...  what do you say, then?   Fiddleford asked, looking up to him with an ~~adorable~~ awkward, _oh God why?_ gap-toothed grin.   _Why does his smile make my head feel like a scrambled TV station?_  “Do you want to, I dunno, go out sometime or somethin?”  
  
_Yes.  I do!  It's everything I've ever wanted!  But Stan...  No!  We're both making real progress now.  I can't.  I...  I can't.  I'm not making that mistake again.  I can't leave him.  I can't lose him again!_  
  
Ford took a deep breath, trying to quell his internal panic.  He released it and asked, “Is it alright if...  Can we... Can we just stay friends?”  
  
_No!  It’s not!_ Ford thought.   _Yes it is!  It’s for the best.  I-  I can’t leave Stan.  
_  
“O-oh,”  Fiddleford stuttered, his eyes darting downward, looking anywhere except at Ford, “Y-yeah.  If that’s what ya’ want.  We-” his breath hitched, his eyelids slamming shut beneath the gleam of his round lenses, trying to dull the ache growing in his head,  “E-excuse me…” he spoke softly, with no hint of blame or anger to his voice, “I just need a minute.  I'm gonna go take a walk an' git some air.”  He bundled up his coat, hugging it to his chest, his beard gathered in its folds and added,  “Back in a bit.”    
  
The room dividing curtain flapped as he walked by, leaving the room excruciatingly empty before Ford choked over an answer, “Yes, of course.  I understand.”    
  
His words trailed off, lost to the cacophony of chatter from the visitors in the room across the hall and the wrenching chill radiating from his heart and through his limbs.  The void of loneliness dug deeper within him, but at least the hollow ache was a misery he was familiar with, like a decades old friend begging him not to leave, convincing him he’d crumble without it, and enveloping him in it’s toxic embrace.    
  
_What is wrong with me?!_  His mind railed against itself, writhing in the absolute anguish of hurting someone dear to him again.  The weight of it all washed over him, dragging him into the divide between too many emotions all at once and utter apathy, leaving him curled on his side, wishing he could take it all back, wishing he could be different, wishing he knew how to relate better to people, wishing he knew how to be better, less like a freak, and wondering what it was like to have had what he’d just rejected at some point in life, even if only for a short while.   _But Stan…  I can’t leave him again…  Not when we’ve finally found each other, not when we finally feel like family again, not after everything he’s done for me._  
  
****  
  
Fiddleford took sluggish but steady strides out of Ford’s room, his heart fluttering and head pounding as he struggled to restrain a deluge of thoughts and regrets.  With his head down, eyes scanning the black specks in the terrazzo below his feet, he traipsed through the hall.  He counted the steps on his way down the stairs before losing himself to thought and wandering through the sliding doors, out into December’s biting cold.    
_  
I jus' need a minute.  Pull yerself together, McGucket.  It's not the end 'a the world.  An even if it were, ya already survived that once, too.  We...  We can still be friends like we always were.  It ain't that much different than what we'd be otherwise, right?  Except...  It would be._   With is coat still clutched to his chest, he fell onto a bench beside the door, snow crunching beneath him and piling on either side of him.   
  
_Oh, yer an old fool.  Ya came on too strong fer him.  Ya pushed him too far too fast.  Of course he doesn’t like ya that way, not after erasin’ memories from him!  Ya betrayed his trust!  Ya ruined your chances with him years ago._  “Aw who am I kiddin’?”  He muttered aloud, his chin nestling into his coat, “An ol’ coot like me never had a chance with him.”    
  
_But he saved ya.  He’s up there innat hospital bed with his back all tore’ up ‘cause he was protectin’ ya.  He was ready ta’ die fer ya.  Why?  It don’t make no sense!  Somethin’ ain’t right ‘bout all this.  It just don’t add up.  But, I guess it means a lot ta have a friend who'd do that for ya...  I'd'a done the same fer him whether we're friends or somethin' more._  
  
He glanced down at his coat, bundled up in his shivering arms, and huffed out a breath, watching it waft upwards in a swirling puff.  With a nod to himself he decided to be sensible and wrapped the swath of tan wool over his shoulders, huddling in the residual warmth from the heater inside.  His glasses tipped up, pressing against the brim of his hat as he massaged his eyes, soaking in the soothing sensation and gathering his thoughts.  
  
He didn’t know how many minutes had passed while he sat outside shivering and running through things over and over, picking apart every detail and blaming himself for any tiny thing that might have ruined his chances.  He buried his head between his coat collar and hat as the door whooshed open behind him every so often, hoping whoever it was would walk by without giving a second thought to the old man hunched on a bench in the snow, lost in a flurry of thoughts.  He'd successfully avoided notice until he heard two sets of footsteps crunching through the snow, approaching him slowly.  He curled in on himself tighter.   _Please don’t sit down here, whoever you are.  Please just walk by…_  
  
“Fiddleford?”    
  
He cringed despite Mabel’s soft and sympathetic tone.  
  
“What happened?  Are you alright?”  Dipper asked in an equally gentle cadence.    
  
“Don’t ask him that,” Mabel hissed, elbowing her brother, “of course he’s not alright.”  
  
He gave a slight single nod, refusing to lift his head and face either twin.  
  
“Do…  Do you want us to leave you alone?”  Dipper asked, scratching the back of his head.  
  
Fiddleford shook his head without even registering the motion or considering his reply.  Apparently he needed the company, or perhaps an ear or four to listen and two kind voices to soothe his soul.  Though he expected to, he didn’t recoil when Mabel scooped enough snow off of the bench to sit down beside him.    
  
“I take it things didn’t work out with Grunkle Ford…” She spoke in nearly a whisper.  
  
He shook his head again, keeping his face mostly buried between his collar and his hat, “He wants to just stay friends,” he muttered.    
  
“I don’t get it,” Dipper said, more to himself than to anyone else, “The way he looked at you…  There’s no way that was a ‘just friends’ look.  And he risked himself to save you, though, I think sometimes he has no concept of self-preservation when it comes to other people in danger… But still, I thought for sure…  Something isn’t right…”  
  
“Dipper’s right,” Mabel spoke over her brother’s babble, her hand resting on Fiddleford’s back, “The look on his face when you were banjo-beating the shape shifter should be stuck in the dictionary as the definition of ‘smitten’.”  
  
“Or maybe it was because he was delirious from the pain or blood loss,” Dipper muttered, his feet digging a rut in the snow behind the bench as he paced, “No that can’t be it, that would look different, wouldn’t it?”  
  
“Stop stressing about that, bro.  It was obviously his ‘oh no I have a crush on him’ face.  I wasn’t kidding when I said it was the same way you look at Wendy.  What we should be stressing over is why he’s rejecting his true feelings,” Mabel crooned.  
  
“Do-  Do ya’ really think there’s somethin’ else makin’ him wanna just stay friends?”  Fiddleford sniffled.  
  
“Well, after the gnome thing and ugh, Gideon,”  Mabel shuddered, “I'd be the first one saying no means no if I wasn't so sure that's not the case here.  I mean, even if he does like you but has another reason, I still wouldn't push him but, if it's something that could be worked on or around and he's willing to do that, there might still be a chance.”   
  
“Mabel’s right,” Dipper affirmed, pulling his coat around himself with a shiver.  “Grunkle Stan is talking to him right now.  Maybe he’s found something out.  We should go back up there and see what’s going on.”  
  
“You think so?”  Fiddleford asked with a touch of hope in his voice.    
  
“Better to know than not.” Dipper’s upward inflection reflected more of a question than a statement.  “You don't even have to ask him about it again, we can just see if we can find out more about the situation.”  
  
“Yeah.  No pressure.  Come on, lets get you back inside before icicles grow out of your nose,” Mabel suggested, wiping the chill-induced dribbles from her own nose with her coat cuff.  She lifted herself from the bench, frowning at the wet patch spread across the back of her jeans and into the hem of her coat.  
  
“Alright,” Fiddleford conceded.  With the crackle of bones and a grunted “umph,” he stood and allowed Mabel to take his hand and lead him back to the automatic doors.  “I hope yer right and I didn’t wreck-i-mi-ify our friendship by admittin’ things.”  
  
“Well,” Dipper said, pointing to Wendy's furry hat, tugged tightly on his head, “I admitted things to Wendy and, even though she didn't like me like that, we're still best friends.  So, things can work out.”  
  
Fiddleford nodded and let out a puff of breath in relief as the doors whooshed open and the warmth of the waiting room thawed his icy cheeks.  His feet dragged but his heart thumped triple-time to every step as he followed the twins back to Ford’s room.  He could hear Stan’s voice beyond the door, a gravely attempt at a whisper emanating from behind the curtain’s blue-tinted silhouette.  He didn’t catch Stan’s question but Ford’s answer sent his mind into a dizzy, giddy haze.    
  
"I will.  That is, if Fiddleford will still...  I wouldn't blame him if he didn't want to give me another chance."  
  
_If that’s what you want, 'course I will!_  The curtain swayed as Mabel led him past.  His reply welled up in his throat, too impatient to suppress until a break in the elder twins’ conversation.  
  
“You're lucky I'm the forgivin' type,” he chided playfully.    
  
“Fiddleford, you came back,” Ford's cheeks lifted with a sloppy smile as Dipper and Mabel led his old friend into the window's light.   
  
“Well, I mighta' gotten a little ahead'a myself with mentionin' you movin' in so quick.  'Sides, your family here,” Fiddleford said with a nod to Dipper and Mabel, “made a purdy convincin' argument for ya.  Said they knew somethin had ta be wrong fer ya ta say ya just wanted ta' stay friends.  So...”  He lowered his hat from his head, his hands fidgeting with the brim.  “You wanna tell me what it is?”  
  
Stan eased himself out of his chair and cupped his hands around the younger twins' shoulders, ushering them out of the room, “Let's give them a little more time to figure things out,” he whispered to them.  
  
Dipper nodded and followed Stan's lead.  Mabel leaned back and smiled to Ford, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up accompanied by a wink. In return, he leaned past Fiddleford slightly and offered her a wobbly lift of the corers of his lips, crinkling his reddened cheeks.  
  
After hearing his door click shut, Ford answered, "Well, perhaps I did overreact a little to some worries and a bit of, er, I suppose it was separation guilt.  It seems I still have a lot of things to work through."  
  
"Heh, yeah.  We both got a lotta issues don't we?" Fiddleford laughed awkwardly, tugging his hat back onto his head.  
  
"Yeah.  But, you know, I think I'd like to try to work on them together, if that's alright with you," Ford said with a fond smile, offering his hand to Fiddleford.  
  
"I'd like that, too," he answered, his fingers tangling with Ford's.    
  
Six fingers locked in a stiff embrace around his five, struggling to remain steady, to stifle a rising tremor.   
  
_Oh no.  Why did I-_ Ford thought, nearly choking as his heart seemed to jump to his throat at the still unfamiliar sensation of spindly fingers threaded between his own, at the warmth of Fiddleford’s palm pressed against his.  His pulse hammered anxiously through every limb.   _What am I doing?  I can’t-_  He released his hand as nonchalantly as he could manage and retracted both of his to his lap where they clutched the hem of his blanket.  
  
“Ford?  You alright?” Fiddleford asked, his head cocked to the side in concern.  
  
“Yes I…” His throat tightened and his cheeks burned.  He looked down to his partly splinted but mostly clenched fingers, unsure of what might happen if he met Fiddleford’s gaze but equally sure he didn't want to find out.  He held his breath, biting his bottom lip, his mind trying to stay afloat in a tsunami of thoughts and emotions.  He calculated his next breath, clearing enough mental space and damming enough of the cataclysm to ask, “May I have a moment, please?”  
  
“…Yeah.  ‘Course,” Fiddleford answered with audible uncertainty, “Did…  Did I do somethin’ wrong?”  
  
“No!  No, nothing like that,” he said with a fierce shake of his head.  The last thing he wanted was for Fiddleford to think anything bad of himself, or worse, to think he was rejecting him again.  “I just need to-” he swallowed hard, struggling to thread words through his clenched throat, “To gather my thoughts.”  
  
“Ohhh yeah, alright,” Fiddleford answered in an empathetic lilt, “I got ‘ya.  How ‘bout I run down to the snack machine an’ find us somethin’ ta munch on?”  
  
“Thanks,” Ford answered and ventured a glance up to Fiddleford, just enough to flash a faint, hopefully reassuring grin to him while avoiding the eye contact which threatened to unravel him.  He returned the gesture with his wide, gap-toothed grin and a small, shy wave of his hand.  
  
Ford’s breath puffed out through parted lips the second his door tapped against its frame, not quite shut but close enough to stifle the light and chatter from the hall.  It faltered as he inhaled, quaking through his lungs in choppy gasps.  His glasses skewed as he rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, blotting the dampened corners and clenching them closed until he felt he could open them again without any physical manifestation of the turmoil in his mind.   _You’re fine.  You can do this._  He ran through the affirmation after every counted and timed breath, convincing himself to believe the lie, drowning out any contrary thoughts, squashing the heartache twisting in his chest and seeping into every muscle of every limb.  Or, at least, trying to.  
  
_Fiddleford probably feels horrible.  He had the heart to give me another chance and now I’ve told him to leave again!  What am I doing to him?  Is he really okay?_  
_  
And Stan…  Is Stan really alright with this?  Is he merely being kind?  Pretending to be alright for my sake?  I don’t want him to feel like he's being put in second place, like he's not good enough, like I'm choosing Fiddleford over him.  I could never make that choice!  It’s not that simple.  I choose them both but in different ways.  I don't want anyone to make either of them to feel rejected, like less of a person, like they're not good enough ever again.  
  
And what about Dipper and Mabel…  The things they’ve been through… because of_ _…_ _Are they alright?  They shouldn’t have had to see the horrible things they’ve seen or be as brave as they’ve been.  They shouldn't have had to fear for their safety because of...  me.  
  
Quit it!  You can’t judge how they all feel or will feel and trying to imagine all of the possibilities is futile.  
__  
But does Fiddleford really want this?  Why?  He could do so much better.  
__  
How could anyone ever love you-  
  
Stop it!  You're fine._  
  
He battled against his own voice, tromping through his head, bullying and berating him.  
_  
You’re too awkward, too weird, too nerdy. You hate going out, you hate anything loud, you hate crowds, you hate everything that everyone else thinks is fun.  No one wants someone who works all the time.  No one wants someone who’d rather hide out in the basement all the time.  No one wants to hold a rose with too many thorns._  
_  
Stop it.  Breathe in one two three four five six.  Breathe out one two three four five six seven eight.  You’re fine._  
_  
But how do I shave off the thorns?  How do I change?  I’ve tried.  I don’t know how!  And who am I kidding?  There’s no rose here.  Just thorns.  Ugh stop whining!  Stop it with this self-pity garbage!  No.  Stop judging yourself...  UGH!  There's no time for this!  He'll be back any minute.  Pull yourself together._  
  
Voices from his past played over in his head.  They'd spread, over the decades, like invasive weeds, roots tunneling deep, cracking though his psyche, wrapping around the broken remains and caging them for their own exploitation, shrouding out all reason with a blanket of thick, poisonous leaves.  Every day, week, year, he thrashed through the bramble, stomping on and plucking what he could, but never managing to unearth their roots, never managing to stop the tangle from growing back thicker the next day.  
  
_“Freak!”  
  
“Weirdo!”  
  
“Ew gross!”  
  
“He’s such a bore.”  
  
“He’s such a downer, a real prude.”  
  
“I swear he has something against fun.”  
  
“Don’t you ever do anything other than study and draw?  You’re no fun.”  
  
But… those things are fun to me…  
  
And Fiddleford once said himself that different people like different things…  Right?  
  
“Ew!  Don’t let him touch you! You might grow extra fingers on your face or something!”  
  
Stop it!  He's not like them.  He doesn't believe those things.  
__  
“Dangerous know-it-all”_  
  
_Stan wasn't wrong.  I am dangerous...  
  
_ “ _To be honest, we don’t know what it is he’s going through or if he’d even recognize us when it happens.  What if he thought one of you was that demon?  I’m sorry, kids, but, we’re not professionals.  I think they did the best they could to keep all of you safe._ ” _  
  
They were afraid I might hurt them and they weren't wrong!  I...  I don't know what I would have done!  I could have really hurt one of them!  Or...  or all of them!  
  
Ugh!  What are you doing?  You don’t have time for this.  He's probably on his way back already.  You can deal with all of this later.  Meditate properly when you’re back home again, when you can lock the door to the study and have enough time.  Right now you just need to put yourself back together again.  Just hold out for a little longer.  You can do this.  You’re fine._  
  
“Ford?”    
  
He let out a final breath and looked up to find Fiddleford handing him a small bag of jellybeans in a Star Wars themed package.  His mind berated him for missing the creak of the door opening, the glow of light and mutters from the hall flowing through once more.  The slight startle warped the edges of his haphazardly rigged mental barrier and interrupted its construction before the last boards were nailed in place.  
  
“You okay?” Fiddleford asked as Ford reached out for the gift as if he was reacting through auto-pilot.  
  
“Y-yeah.  I’m fine,” he answered, eyes sill unable to meet Fiddleford's, an anxious buzz jolting through his chest, “Thank you.  It was nice of you to find these for me.  Where did you find them, anyway?  I didn’t think snack machines ever had them,” he asked, shifting the subject to something slightly less emotionally charged.  
  
“Saw ‘em in the gift shop downstairs,” he answered with a shrug, “I…  I hope ya’ still like ‘em.  It…  It’s been a long time…”  
  
“It has.  But I do.  They’re still my favorite.  And the packaging is entertaining,” he replied, making an attempt to look up and show his appreciative smile.  
  
“Oh good!  I 'membered we liked watchin' that movie when it came out.  Hey look, they had Shmez too.  Gots’ me a matchin' dispenser-ma-jig,” he added, holding up a dispenser with a Darth Vader helmet perched atop it, “I don't think we ever got one like this between us.”  
  
The jittery electrical current sizzling through Ford’s nerves eased as he watched Fiddleford tilt the dispenser’s head back and drop a sweet but chalky candy brick into his mouth.  “Want one?” he asked, holding out the dispenser to Ford.  
  
“Heh, maybe a bit later, thanks,” he answered, setting his jelly beans on the bedside table and shifting it.  It rolled smoothly until its top ran parallel with the bed.    
  
“There might not be any left later,” Fiddleford shrugged, popping another cherry-scented candy in his mouth.  
  
“Fiddleford,” Ford began, uncertain of how he felt, what to say, or why he’d even broken the momentary silence at all, “What…  what do we do now?”   _Wow.  Smooth.  You’re a real charmer._  He grimaced at himself wondering how awkward it would be considered to wrap his blanket over his head and hide under it for a few days.    
  
“Well, uh, I guess there’s no one right way ta’ do things.  We already know each other’s past selves pretty well but It’d be good ta’ reconnect.  Ya’know, spend time together or somethin’, hold hands, get used to what each other likes and don’t like.  How ‘bout this fer a startin’ point; ya mind iff’n I sit beside ya fer a bit?”  Fiddleford asked, pocketing his candy dispenser and patting the bed.  
  
“Oh…  Oh I-uh…” Ford could feel heat rising in his cheeks though he wasn’t sure if if was from fondness, embarrassment, desire, or the odd tingle spreading through his limbs, raising every hair and warning him to run, to push away, to fortify all of his fences and find the nearest escape route while simultaneously wishing he wouldn't tear open his injuries by reaching out to pull him into an embrace.   _I can’t do this…  No.  Stop.  You’re fine._  
  
“It’s alright if you’d rather not.  We don’t gotta go rushin’ in ta’ anythin’,” Fiddleford said with a gentle smile.  “It was just a suggest-a-ment.  Like I said…  ain’t no one right way a’ goin ‘bout this.”  
  
“I-It’s okay…” Ford whispered, surprised by his ability to defy himself and speak up, even if it came out meekly, “I don’t mind.” _This is fine.  I’m…  I’m not…_  He swallowed hard but a lump stuck in his throat.   
  
“Alright,” Fiddleford replied with a widening grin, “scoot yer cute ol’ rump over.”  
  
Ford blinked, his cheeks burning bright pink.   _Cute?  But he’s the one who’s…  I’m not…  No one’s ever thought I was…  No stop.  Focus.  I need to focus on…  On…  It’s too tangled.  Too much.  Half of these aren’t even coherent thoughts!_  
  
“But don’t you go hurtin’ yerself none,” Fiddleford amended his request.  
  
Ford nodded and carefully shifted to the left side of the bed, allowing Fiddleford enough space to sit beside him.  The spindly man hoisted himself up onto the thin, lumpy mattress near Ford’s knees and turned to face him, his legs still dangling over the side as if showing he had no intent of getting too close for comfort.  
  
Even so, Ford’s chest tightened.   _Everything is fine.  I’m not…_ His body stiffened, his limbs and spine completely rigid as he felt the mattress sink beneath the warmth settling in beside him.  
  
“Are uh-” Fiddleford stuttered, his head tilted in concern, “Are ya’ sure this is okay?”  
  
“Fiddleford, I-” he began unsure of what words would tumble out.   _Yes it’s fine.  I’m fine.  I’m not…  No, absolutely not.  I’m not.  It’s fine.  Focus.  I faced the nightmare realm twice, fought and defied a demon, and survived literal Armageddon.  I’m not…  Absolutely not.  I- I’m…_ “I’m scared,” his hand flew to his mouth, too late to stop the barely whispered syllables from slipping out.   
  
“Scared?”  Fiddleford questioned in no louder of a tone, his cadence carrying no hint of mockery, nothing but honest empathy, “Of what?  Of me?  I know I dun’ kerfluffled things before but I promise I ain’t never gonna do nothin’ ta hurt you ever agin’.”  
  
Ford’s fingers muffled his already mumbled reply, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”     
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow,” Fiddleford tilted his head, concerned at all Ford’s answer might imply, “Yer afraid I _won’t_ hurt you?”  
  
Awkward moments turned into excruciating minutes as Ford failed to provide any further insight.  He tried.  His mouth nearly opened and spilled out babble more than once but he thought better of saying any of the things racing through his mind, thought better of even thinking them before they could materialize into anything he could vocalize.  He’d already said too much.  
  
“Ford,” Fiddleford whispered, tilting his head to try to catch a glimpse of Ford’s face, lowered into shadow.  “Are…  Are you alright?”  
  
“Yes.  Fine.  I’m fine,” he said as merrily as he could muster and raised his head, his smile nowhere near as convincing as he’d hoped it would be, as he could usually make it be.  It took more energy to lie than usual.  It drained from his limbs and tugged at the upturned corners of his lips.   _Happy.  I’m supposed to be happy.  I should be…  Why can’t I just be…_    
  
“You know it’s alright if you’re not fine, right?”  
_  
No, it isn’t.  The last time I wasn’t thankful and happy…  It hurt Stan.  He disowned me.  Told me to stay away from the kids…  And before, when dad threw Stan out…  I never wanted that.  It was my fault.  Because I was angry and hurt and…  No.  I am fine.  Happy.  Thankful.  Fine.  But… Ugh!  What is wrong with me?!_  
  
“Stanford?” Fiddleford spoke softly with brows raised in worry as Ford bit his bottom lip, lost deep in thought.  His hand reached out slowly until his fingertips brushed against Ford’s cheek.   _Cold.  Why is he always so cold?_  
  
The gesture was kind and gentle but it sent a tingling wave of horror through Ford’s body.  He pulled back, ducking away from the calloused fingertips and wincing more at himself and his reaction than the lingering, pleasant tickle of warmth against his cheek.  
  
Fiddleford withdrew his hand, apologizing in swift words which seemed to climb over one another to emerge, “I’m sorry!  Ford, I’m sorry.  That was too much too fast, weren’t it?  I’m sorry.  It’s okay.  It’s alright if’n ya don’t like bein’ touched.  We don’t gotta do nothin’ like that if it makes ya’ uncomfortable.”  
  
“No…” Ford’s fingers dug into his blanket as he struggled to explain, his mind racing, fighting a war against itself.  
  
_Please…  let me have this.  Let me try.  I want to try…_ _  
  
No I don’t!  I can’t handle this!  I can’t handle anyone touching me!  I need to get away!_  
  
_No…  please…  I want to feel it again.  Is it always so startling?  Does it always send a rush through your body?  Do you ever get used to it?  Does it always give you chills?  Is it supposed to do that?_  
  
Though it was merely a whisper, he finally forced out the words, “I- I do want it.”  
  
“Then…  what’s wrong?”  Fiddleford asked, his question soft, not demanding an answer but offering a place to give it freely.  
  
“I…  I don’t know how,” Ford muttered, surprised and mortified that any answer emerged at all.  
  
“Oh.  What exact-a-maly do ya mean by ‘don’t know how’?”  
  
“What do I do?” He blurted, words racing faster than his thoughts, faster than his ability to stop them, “How do I react?  How should I feel?  Do I return the gesture?  How do I do it?”  
  
“I…  I don’t think there’s one right answer to any ’a that.”  Fiddleford's reply faltered as he scrambled to answer questions he'd never considered, “And I don’t think there’re any wrong ones.  You feel how you feel… and react however you react.”  
  
“But what if it’s not appropriate or good?  What if it's too overboard or too stoic?  What if it’s not happy?  What if it’s…  Something else?”  
  
“Then we’ll figure things out when we get there.  How ‘bout this?  ‘Member a long time ago ya’ told me about that medi-ma-tation thingy where ya let yerself think and feel however ya do an’ don’t judge yerself for it?  How ‘bout we try again and ya do that?  Just feel whatever it is ya feel an react however you want.  No judgment from me or yerself.  Don’t worry none ‘bout how anyone else would feel or how ya think ya should feel or what anyone else’d think of ya fer feelin’ what ya feel or how yer feelin’s might make anyone else feel.  An' Don't worry none about me sayin whatever your reaction is ain't right.  I promise.”  
  
_I’d rather not…  No…  I need to try…  For him…  For us…  Just…  You can do this.  You’re fine.  Right?_  
  
“O-okay…” he spoke in a breathy exhalation, “I-I’ll try…”  
  
Fiddleford reached out once more in a slow, careful movement.  
  
Ford shivered as Fiddleford’s fingers ruffled his sideburn, the memory of awakening to the sensation once before replaying in his mind. _But it's likely I was delirious then.  I had a head injury.  Was that even real?  Was it really?  It wasn't some hallucination?  Something my mind made up to comfort me?  It must have been.  It felt so much like this.  And this...  This is...  It’s real.  It’s really real.  It’s not a dream.  I can feel it.  It’s warm and gentle…  It’s so much more than I ever thought it could be.  Is this what it’s like?  
_  
Fiddleford's palm cupped his cheek and he felt himself lean in, his overgrown stubble pressed against work-worn fingers.  His eyes slipped shut as he felt something shift in his mind.  His heart wrenched in his chest as the loathsome weeds, simultaneously binding his consciousness together and breaking it apart, withered and shrank.  In a split second it was as if someone dug a metal rake in, the prongs catching every root and pulling until all that remained were clotted clumps of dirt and raw, split rhizomes, snaked across the surface and exposed to the scorching sun.  
  
He sucked in a deep breath but it faltered, hitching in his throat.  He tried to release it calmly through parted lips.  Instead, it burst forth in a ragged sob.  He fought to inhale again but every breath caught on the trembling and heaving of his chest.  Before he knew what was happening, before he could do anything to prevent or delay it, decades of loneliness flooded out, streaming down his cheeks, pooling against Fiddleford’s palm, and dripping from his nose and chin.  
  
Fiddleford suddenly understood what Ford had meant about not knowing how to react.  He’d thought he was ready for nearly any outcome, even if it was another rejection, but he wasn’t prepared to watch the man who’d once followed his dreams with what seemed like unshakable intelligence and confidence crumble before him.  All he could think to do was remove the catalyst, hoping to lessen its effects.  His hand lowered, fingertips streaking dampness down his cheek.  Just as he severed contact, he felt Ford’s hands, fingers chilled and palms clammy, wrap around his, pulling it back, pressing it harder against his cheek.  his shoulders relaxed as he allowed the pair of trembling hands, one bound in splints and bandages, to cradle his own, holding it in place almost desperately.    
  
“I-I’m Sorry.  I’m-I’m So-  I’m Sorry!” Ford gasped, forcing choppy, half-formed words out between the sobs he wrestled to stifle, “I-I can’t…  I can’t make…  make it stop!”  
  
“Stop trying to,” Fiddleford replied as calmly as he could, resting his free hand on Ford’s arm, trying to offer any small comfort to him.  “Ford, ya…  ya bin’ ta Hell an’ back, spent thirty years inna nightmare that…  that did far worse ta’ me in a matter a’ seconds.  For cripes sake, Ford, you were,” his already empathetic tone softened further as he glanced at Ford’s reddened wrists, “You were tortured…  I think yer allowed ta feel like this.”    
  
Ford’s hands loosened around Fiddleford’s and slid down to his lap, folding rigidly over his abdomen as he struggled to stop the tremor surging through them.  His head drooped between his quaking shoulders, shrouding his tear streaked cheeks in shadow and self-imposed shame.    
  
He could easily have lied.  He could have said Fiddleford was right, that what he’d seen and experienced had been too much and no one would question it.  Hell, he was already in therapy because of it.  He knew Fiddleford and his family wouldn’t think any less of him for it.  They’d already clearly shown him they wouldn’t.  But he was tired.  Exhausted.  Unraveling at every seam.  
  
“It’s not that,” he whispered, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, trying to dull the intensifying sobs.  Before he knew what he was doing, before he had so much as an inkling to stop it, half-sentences and incomplete thoughts blurted out, “I- I don’t know how- how to do this.  I used to wonder what it was like to have someone to walk with, to hold hands with… but I gave up decades ago.  I gave up when the thought of anything more than a simple kiss made me cringe, when I thought no one would want someone who didn't like those things.  Do-  Do you remember in college, you invited me to a party once?”  
  
“Yeah.  After exams.  Ya said ya was too wiped out ta make it.”  
  
“I did.  But the truth is that I did show up.  Or well, I tried to.  I only lasted fifteen minutes before having to leave.  It was too much. Too many sights and sounds and smells and...  And I know no one else wanted me there.  I heard them talking about it.  They didn't know I was there but...  They hoped I wouldn't show up.”   
  
“I never knew that.  Ford, I'm so sorry.  But ta' be honest, I wish I'd 'a had the presence of mind not ta' go ta' those shindigs.  They might'a been fun fer lots'a other people but not fer me.”  
  
Ford nodded in agreement before continuing in a husky whisper, “That night was when I figured out that being alone in quiet spaces, working on my interests, was the only time I didn’t feel overwhelmed.  It was the night that I accepted that I’d never have this, that no one wanted someone who's no fun.  I was grateful to have you and your friendship but I knew or...  at least I thought that it couldn't last forever, that we'd go our separate ways after college and you'd get married and have a family the way I was told people were meant to while I would find some...  Something else to do.  I thought I came to terms with it; that being myself meant being alone…  I took extra classes to keep busy then isolated myself for research and began working on the portal because I needed some reason to exist…  I lied to myself, saying that my research was all I needed and it became the entirety of who I was, but somewhere inside…  Somehow…  I hoped that if I succeeded I’d finally be good enough…  Good enough that someone might…  Like me.  But they were right.  No one wants to hold a rose with too many thorns…”  His voice trailed off, hands wringing the hem of his blanket as an unrelenting flood seeped past eyes shut in futility and dripped from the tip of his nose, seeping into the green flannel gathered around him.  
  
“Hmm.  I think I’d look at it more like ‘roses might be finicky but iff’n ya learn how ta grow em, they’ll reward you with beautiful flowers,” Fiddleford said, reaching for a box of tissues at the bedside, taking one for himself before handing the box to Ford.  
  
He accepted, his hands clutching the box absently as he sniffled.  “Y-you,” he stuttered and stumbled over his words, his voice catching on the erratic shaking of his shoulders, “You s-said something like that the night of the party.  T-that...  That everyone likes different things.  I-I think...  I think that's why I called for your help after college.  B-because...  you said it was nice to have a friend who liked the same things and...  And you dropped everything to come help me.  I was so grateful.  But-  But...  I...  I...  Fiddleford I'm so sorry!”  He tugged a tissue from the box shrouding his face in it's nearly transparent white as fresh sobs choked him.  
  
“Hey, it's alright,”  Fiddleford whispered.  In a careful motion, as if approaching a frightened puppy, he reached out and rested his hand on Ford's shoulder, relieved to meet no resistance and only a minor recoil in the form of a light tremor.  He wanted to offer comfort but this was the only way he knew how; the way his family had comforted him as a child.  He risked a little more, shifting his hand upwards, feeling the hair at the nape of Ford's neck ruffle between his fingers.    
  
Ford's shoulders stiffened but allowed the hand woven in his hair to draw him closer.  Static buzzed through his mind, tangled in the scent of sweet cherry candy and the lingering musk of oil, in the bristle of snowy-white hair against his cheek, in the plush wool cradling his chin.  He leaned in, lowering his head until his matted curls tangled with Fiddleford's mustache as lanky arms encircled him.  His hands trembled as he lifted them, drawing back twice before returning the gesture.  
  
“Ford, I completely forgive you,” he began.  His hand patted his shoulder as he continued, “I dropped everythin' and joined ya here 'cause I needed a friend, too.  Everythin' was gettin' ta be so overwhelmin' an all I wanted was ta be workin' on projects I could be passionate about next to someone who felt the same.  Someone I could relate to.”  
  
“Why couldn't I see it back then?  Why couldn't I see what we could have had?”  
  
“Cause no one knew better back then.  Cause I couldn't see it either an' went off an' got married.”  
  
“And then I- I trusted that monster over you!  He kept telling me horrible things about you, like that you were just using me, that people only pretended to like me because they wanted something from me,”  He sobbed, his hands grasped fistfuls of Fiddleford's coat, clinging to him as if he might spontaneously be pulled away.  
  
“He was tryin'a isolate you.  Makin' sure you thought he was yer only friend,” Fiddleford replied without a trace of accusation or blame in his words, with nothing short of empathy and compassion.    
  
“And I fell for it!” tears welled in the lenses of his glasses as he choked over his words, “It's my fault!  How could I have been so gullible?”  
  
“Except'n ya weren't.  After the portal test incident ya' did believe me.  Ya' confronted him.  And then ya called fer help.”   
  
“And then I botched that up too,” he muttered, his grip loosening.  His hands fell to his lap but he made no move to leave Fiddleford's embrace as he continued in a rambling verbal torrent, “And then I fell into the portal and and…  And it gave me a thirty year distraction.  I was so consumed with trying to stay alive so I could defeat HIM that relationships were the absolute last thing on my mind.  And when everything was over, I thought I’d gotten past any desire for it, that I could just be happy for others now, that I was too old to care anymore…  That I was too far gone…  That I was too inexperienced…  That no one would want me now purely because of how pathetic it is that I’m still alone!  I thought…  Thought that I could distract myself again with research and art and books and projects…  But I’d still sometimes see people together and wonder, ‘what’s it like?’  And I’d shut myself down…  Tell myself It’s too late.  This is who I am now and…”  He sat up, meeting no resistance from Fiddleford's arms aside from the chill radiating from the frosted window replacing their warmth.  He sniffled and wiped his nose with a wad of tissues before looking up with pleading, bloodshot eyes and asking,  "If I’m not the outcast, then who am I?”  
  
“Is…  Is this why you said you were afraid?” Fiddleford asked.  
  
“…Partly.”  
  
“Partly?  What else then?”  
  
“That…" his head sank into shadow again as he spoke, "That you… You’d see how…  Pathetic I am and leave.”  
  
“Welp…  I’m still here, ain’t I?”  
  
Ford managed a single nod.  “Why, though?  H-how can you stand me?” he stuttered through choked hiccups and sharp inhalations snagging on the involuntary shuttering of his chest, “How…?  What redeeming quality can you possibly see in me that…  that would make you want to be near me?”  
  
“I see a lotta things that other people missed out on by not givin’ ya a chance.  An’ a lotta things I bin’ lookin fer.  Like someone who likes quiet.  Someone who likes a’ workin’ on the same kinds a’ things I do.  Someone who likes ta’ stay in an’ read sometimes.  Someone who don’t wear no fancy cologne or worry ‘bout having all sorts of swanky new clothes.  Someone who don't like all a' that makin' out fuss.  In fact, I’d argue the real question here is what the heck do ya see in an ol’ hillbilly like me?”  
  
“Everything,” he sniffled, the aftershocks of his emotional deluge rattling through his limbs.  “You’re kind and intelligent and you make me laugh.  Honestly you amaze me with everything you are capable of and all that you are.  But mostly I just… Like the way I feel when you’re around.  We don't even need to be speaking to one-another nor interacting and it feels warm.  Like...  Home, I- I'm not explaining it very well…”  
  
“You don’t gotta.  I get it.  It’s the same thing I feel when yer around.”  
  
A light knock interrupted the pleasant pause in their conversation.  The door eased open and a friendly “Hello?” sounded from a silhouette in the shaft of fluorescent light flooding through.  Ford scraped his cheeks with a clean fistful of tissues, rubbed them under his nose, and blotted them against his lenses in a hasty attempt to erase at least some minute trace of his current emotional state.  
  
Fiddleford slipped off of the side of the bed as a doctor with tight black curls sidestepped the room-dividing curtain and addressed Ford.  “Oh you’re awake.  Excellent,” she said in an anxious tone, her fingers fidgeting with a pen behind her clipboard, “I’m Dr. Bellinger and I was one of the surgeons assisting with your treatment when-”  
  
“Oh,” Ford interrupted, the redness draining from his cheeks, replaced by a horrified palor.  He looked up to her with bloodshot eyes, “Did…  did I hurt you?”  
  
“N-no,” she answered and offered an awkward laugh, “Though, you certainly made a mess out of the room…”  
  
“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I-”  
  
“It’s alright.  I’ve been updated on your status.  I know you meant no harm but I’m glad you are seeking help.  I’m not here about that.  I’m here to check up on you and answer any questions you may have.”  
  
“Oh.  Well…  Yes, I do have one,” he said with a sniffle, his glasses lifting as he blotted his burning eyes with the corner of a tissue, trying to further regain his composure.  “My brother and I enjoy sailing for long periods of time.  It’s partly for our work and partly for my research, as well as for recreation.  It can sometimes be weeks before we reach another port.   Will I be able to continue?  Will there be any lasting complications?”  
  
“I don’t see there being any problem with it.  As long as you complete physical therapy and have a means of keeping in touch with your therapist and getting your prescriptions filled as necessary.  You may feel some pain or discomfort from your injuries from time to time but it shouldn’t be anything that would keep you from continuing your previous lifestyle.  In fact, I would say the exercise and fresh air would do you good.”  
  
Despite his aching eyes and stiff, sore cheeks, Ford smiled.    
  
“That’s great news,” Fiddleford said with as much of a smile.  
  
“I've seen Mr. Pines here before, but are you one of his brothers too?” the doctor asked Fiddleford.  
  
“Aw, shucks…  No.  I…  I’m-  I mean we’re-”  
  
“He-  He’s my boyfriend,” Ford answered meekly, unsure if he was overstepping any boundaries or if it was too early to call him that but he couldn’t help himself.  
  
Fiddleford turned to him with cheeks stretched in a wide smile, eyes softened with joy.  “I guess I am, ain’t I?” he spoke shyly at first then, as the realization seemed to sink in, he added excitedly, “And that means you’re my-”  
  
“Yes!  Yes, I am!” Ford answered, mirroring Fiddleford’s enthusiasm, “I’m your…  and your my…” Fresh tears welled in his weathered eyes, streaking over smile-stretched cheeks, washing away the pressure in his head like a spring rain sweeping away a slurry of muddied, melting snow.  He’d never been able to say something like that before and he wasn’t even sure he could say it again without losing any remaining shred of composure.  And suddenly, he didn’t care.  He stuttered and stumbled over his words, joy streaming down his cheeks, “I…  I have a…  I’m sorry, I just…  I’m just…  happy.”  
  
Fiddleford looked to him with equally reddened eyes, dampness following the lines etched around his smile and soaking into his beard.  He reached out for his hand, heart soaring as Ford returned the gesture.  
  
“Well, I don’t know what I was expecting when I came in here but I’m sure it wasn’t this,” the doctor muttered with a breathy laugh then quickly amended, “Not that that’s a bad thing!  No, quite the opposite.  I was honestly a little scared coming in here.  If this was a larger town they probably would have had another doctor take over your treatment after the ER incident but… There’s only so many of us here,” she shrugged, “But seriously, I’m glad to find out that the guy with the strength and skills to fight off a team of security guards while under enough anesthesia to take down a bear and covered in enough wounds to kill it, is actually a very kind and loving man.  I uh…  I’ll just let you two have some time alone, now.  Let me know if you have any other questions.”  
  
“Thank you, Dr. Bellinger,” Ford said in a husky whisper, trying his best to steady his voice, “And I do apologize for that incident.  If there is anything I can do beyond paying for the damages, please let me know.”  
  
“Well, nothing was permanently damaged beyond a few curtains, sheets, and some of the staff’s scrubs and you didn’t actually injure anyone.  To be honest, the guards here have dealt with far more aggressive and violent patients before.  You were strong but it honestly didn't seem like you were aiming to hurt anyone...  Anyway, we'll just bill you for the repairs,” she said jokingly.  
  
“Oh hey!” Fiddleford's leg hopped with excitement, “This guy here's snagged himself a rich boyfriend.  How's about I make a nice large donation to cover the damages an' fix up this old place a little?”  
  
“Are you...  Is he serious?” The doctor lifted an eyebrow hopefully.  
  
Ford tilted his head to catch a glimpse of Fiddleford's confident grin and the way his fists perched on his hips triumphantly.  
  
“Yes.  I'd say he's totally serious.”  
  
“Wow.  Thank you Mr...”  
  
“Fiddleford Hadron McGucket!  Expect a check inna spring!”  
  
After blushing deep red from several more thank you's from both the doctor and Ford, Fiddleford walked Dr. Bellinger to the door and ushered her out, letting the door click shut behind her.  On the way by the wash station, he dampened a paper towel and patted it over his eyes and cheeks, soaking in the cool relief as it dulled the raw aftermath of the emotional hurricane.  He prepared a second one and offered it to Ford who gladly accepted.  His heart soared when Ford entrusted him with washing his glasses, something so fragile but so vital to his everyday life.  He held them gingerly under the tap, washing the spotted and streaked lenses with a drop of soap then tapped them dry.  He handed them back gently and replied to Ford's 'thank you' with, "No problem."  
  
Though the coolness of the damp paper towels left Ford's face cleaner, it did little to help the stiff, puffiness of his eyes and cheeks or the pressure in his head.  He covered his mouth as a wide yawn forced its way out.      
  
“Ya look exhausted,” Fiddleford's voice was laced in concern, “Wanna lie down an' rest a bit?”  
  
“That would probably be a good idea,” he answered, placing the used paper towel in Fiddleford's open hand.  
  
Fiddleford tossed it in the trash and turned back to see Ford focusing especially diligently on his blanket threading through his fingers.  Before he could ask if something was wrong, he paused and looked up.  Chewing on his bottom lip, he patted the bed where Fiddleford had sat mere minutes ago.  
  
His blushed cheeks lifted, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile as he asked, “Are ya sure?”  
  
Ford nodded and answered hesitantly, “If...  If it's alright.  I...  I've missed out on so much.  I don't want to lose any more time than I already have.”  
  
Fiddleford helped him to lie down, careful not to jar his injuries and climbed onto the blanket beside him.  He tugged his coat around himself and laid down facing him, his heart fluttering against his ribs.  “You sure you're okay with this?” he asked.  
  
“Are you sure you're okay with never doing more than this?” Ford replied.  
  
“Are you kidding?  Yes!  This is perfect.  Anythin' more is too much fer me.  But really, are ya sure this ain't too much too fast?  Ya sure yer okay with it?”      
  
“It's not so much a matter of being okay with it.  I definitely am that.  It's more...  getting used to it,” he answered, his splinted hand reaching out slowly, shaking as he rested it on Fiddleford's side.  “I think the real question is, are you okay with being this close right now?”  
  
“Why wouldn't I be?”  Fiddleford asked with a quirked eyebrow.  
  
“I haven't been able to shower properly in days.  Sponge baths by the sink in the bathroom can only do so much.  I must smell horrible.”  
  
Fiddleford laughed and replied, “Well your hair could use a proper washing but the rest 'a ya still smells the same as I 'member.  Good ol' cinnamon and formaldehyde.”  
  
Ford blushed, “Sorry.  It...  never did fade away.”  
  
“I like it,” Fiddleford said, clasping Ford's hand between both of his.  He yawned and closed his eyes, feeling sleep edging in.  “It reminds me of good times.”  
  
“Yeah,” Ford breathed in, savoring the scent of cherry and machine oil and the warmth of Fiddleford's hands wrapped around his own.  His eyes slipped shut as caught the contagious yawn.  Before surrendering to sleep he replied, "Me too."


	3. Just Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up in part 16 after the problem of what to do with a melting shape shifter popsicle is resolved. Stan and Ford attempt a fishing trip to the lake and Ford finally opens up to Stan about where he was and what he was doing when the portal reopened.
> 
> Warnings: Suicidal ideation due in part to depression and anxiety caused by sensory overloads.  
> (Edit - I feel like I should mention that Stan and Ford have already discussed Stan's potential suicidal thoughts by this point. This fic runs on the headcanon that Stan has been on meds for depression for many years and went through some dark times while trying to find the right dosage and combination and a therapist who is compatible with him. Now that they seem to have found one, they're both coping a bit better. For this particular scene, Stan is basically trying to simply listen and not let his thoughts get away on him and trying not to mention his own struggles because he knows if he does, Ford will focus on those and stop expressing anything about his own feelings and 'dammit he's finally started to talk' so Stan wants to let him.)

Stan lifted his face to the cloudless sky above, basking in an vast gradient of blues that stretched to haze-shrouded cliffs and flowed back beneath him in lightly lapping waves.  The dock creaked as he shifted his weight, dangling his boots over it’s edge.  He closed his eyes, hands gripping the fishing pole that was once his only companion during the lonely lazy summer days spent in his ragged, ramshackle recreation of the Stan O’ War. _Never again_ , he thought.   _Well…  hopefully_ , his mind added as he glanced over his shoulder at the bait shop where Ford had spent the last hour.  
  
He’d been thrilled when Ford approached him last night with an idea:  He’d explained that Tate was spending the day with Fiddleford and needed someone to watch the bait shop.  “I thought maybe we could do it,” he’d suggested, “It’s a weekday so the lake and shop won't be busy.  Fiddleford said Tate won't mind if we spend the day fishing on the dock as long as we stick close enough to the shop keep an eye out for any potential customers.  He said we can use his kitchen and bathroom too which would be pretty convenient.”  
  
Stan had agreed to the favor with the stipulation that they return on the weekend and “go fishing for real” in his patched together motorboat.  
  
“Great!” Ford had replied, “It’ll be like fishing at the pier when we were kids, right?”  
  
Except it wasn’t.  The day had started out fine with both of them awake and ready to go by 6 am.  Stan had asked Ford if he wanted to try driving again but he’d declined with a feeble joke, “I could hotwire and fly a spacecraft no problem, but I never was that great with cars, even before the portal.  To be honest, shortly after I arrived in Gravity Falls, my car was destroyed and I never replaced it.  It was so easy to walk everywhere.”  
  
“Ha!  And probably faster!  You used to drive like an old granny even when we were teens.”  
  
“Yes…  Well, anyway, I don’t think I should be trusted with your car.”  
  
Stan had laughed, “I don’t think I should be trusted with it either!” he joked, then added in an empathetic tone, “But, hey, don’t worry about it.  You don’t gotta be good at everything, that’s what we got each other for, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Ford had answered with a meek smile. He seemed his usual self when he buckled his belt and throughout the drive to the lake, commenting on the various habitats of anomalous creatures in the woods and wincing and bracing himself whenever Stan swerved too close to a tree.  When they arrived, he insisted, “since you drove,” that he would unload all of their fishing gear and traipsed out to the dock’s edge with arms loaded in bags and tackle boxes, two fishing poles leaning against his shoulder.    
  
After setting their gear down, he hauled their cooler to the shop’s kitchenette and unloaded the six pack of Pitt Cola and their roast beef sandwiches into the mini-fridge.  It looked like he almost knew what he was doing when he opened the register from the instructions Tate had left him and served the only two customers the shop would probably see all day, though he’d had trouble entering the cash on the second transaction and even more trying to work out the math under the customer’s impatient stare.  Stan never thought he’d see the day when he’d have to help his genius brother make change for a fifty dollar bill.  
  
“Good thing you ain’t a teenager,” Stan had said, trying to lighten the mood, “or that guy would have been judging you nine ways to Sunday.  You should hear the crap Wendy gets from customers sometimes.  I know she can make change on her own but as soon as they’re lookin’ at her an’ judgin’ her… I get to hear all about how the education system has failed kids these days and how calculators and smart phones are what’s destroyin’ the world.” Stan sighed, “But, hey, we got a good excuse.  We're old geezers so he probably just thought you were having a rough day.”  
  
Shortly after the incident, the redness had faded from Ford’s cheeks and he appeared to snap back to some semblance of “fine”.  When it was clear that no one else would be visiting the bait shop that day, he had said to Stan with a smile, “Why don’t you go ahead and get started.  I’ll be out in a few minutes.”  
  
And Stan hadn’t seen him since.  
  
He stared down, watching the red and white bobber dip and rise over glittering ripples, losing his patience as not a single bite tugged at his line.  He’d never had much luck fishing from the dock.  If anything did bite, it probably wouldn’t be worth keeping.  Nothing bigger than a minnow usually came that close to shore.  Even the steep drop into darker waters where he’d cast his line was usually barren. _It’ll be better when we come back on the weekend,_ he thought, trying to be positive.  Yet he couldn't stop wondering if Ford might not want to come back.  
  
He’d nearly fallen asleep, one hand pressed into his beard to hold his head up, when the shop’s door finally squeaked open behind him.  
  
“Hey, Ford.  ‘Bout time ya joined me!  Beautiful day, isn’t it?  So what were ya up to…  Writing notes in yer journal or some…” his voice trailed off on the word “thing” as he turned around and caught sight of his twin.    
  
Ford thought he’d taken enough time, that he’d thoroughly pulled himself back together and was ready to slip into a happy or at least complacent mask and make it through what remained of the day.  He’d washed up in the shop's bathroom, straightened his patched mosaic coat, and gone through one last round of breathing exercises, presumably ready to face daylight.  
  
He was not.  He regretted the decision to step outside the second his brother spoke.  Stan was happy and he should be.  He deserved it.  The last thing Ford wanted to do was bring him down, but hating himself for hating himself was the final tug that tore his haphazardly mended armor apart.  He turned back to the door, trying to hide his reddening cheeks, and reached for the knob, struggling against it’s stubbornness to let himself back inside, to run back to the bathroom, hoping Stan hadn’t turned around yet, that if he could get away quickly enough, his twin might think he was simply hearing the dock creak and that no one had been there at all.  
  
But Stan had already spotted him.  His fishing pole clattered against the weathered boards, forgotten as he clamored to his feet and moved toward his brother.  Ford glanced up at the sound, both arms wrapping around his chest, his back hunched and head nestled between trembling shoulders.  Curled in on himself, he looked tiny and defeated.  It unnerved Stan to see him like that; sent a shiver through his veins, jolting into his heart and freezing his feet.  He forced his posture to relax, making it clear that he had no intent to prevent Ford's escape during the momentary pause.  
  
Thanks to their therapist, they’d made progress.  It was slow and shaky and frustrating but it was there just the same.  It was a daily struggle filled with conscious thought processes and extra energy spent on slicing through invasive thoughts which, like ink dropped onto a dampened page, could easily seep into every corner of their minds in seconds.  But, they’d gotten better at handling them, at setting them aside for a moment to listen to each other, to hear each other through.  
  
Ford had been so silent for so long, listening to Stan’s stories, helping him regain his memories, and offering apologies profusely for things that both were and were not within his control, but ever since his encounter with the shape shifter and the ensuing physical and mental trauma which landed him in the hospital for nearly two weeks, he was finally starting to open up.  Every so often he’d speak of some small fragment of his thirty year journey.  They were usually neutral or not terrible memories, things like random dimensions he’d thought Stan would enjoy, the time he was briefly crowned king in a dimension which celebrated his polydactyly, an anecdote about accidentally changing the color of the sky somewhere, and something about a party with an oracle and a bunch of space nerds after he’d had the metal plate implanted in his head.  
  
Stan had never pushed for more information.  As much as he wanted Ford to speak up, to let out whatever he was struggling to contain, he knew he couldn’t push it.  He knew it would only strengthen his brother’s resolve to remain silent.  Instead, he struggled to set his thoughts aside and let whatever happened happen.  He swallowed hard before hesitantly choking out, “Hey.  It’s okay.  I’m here if you wanna talk about somethin’ but if you’re not ready, that’s okay. We can lock up the shop and head home or I can just stay out here if you need some more time alone.”  
  
To Stan’s surprise, Ford looked to him with dampened eyes and shook his head.  He lifted his foot and ventured a shaky step toward him.    
  
Stan reached out slowly, not so much to coax him closer, but as a precaution to catch him if he stumbled.  
  
His legs shook as he took another step forward, arms still wrapped around his chest, his lower lip clenched between his teeth.  
  
Stan’s instinct proved right.  Ford wobbled and he lurched forward to catch him.  He stifled a gasp, taken aback as Ford’s arms wrapped around him and clung to him, clutching fistfuls of his coat and hanging on as if their lives depended on it.  Stan rested his hands on his back, offering a gentle pat every so often to soothe the shaking of his shoulders as too many emotions poured out all at once.  
  
“It’s okay.  I got you.  We got each other.”  
  
“I thought it would stop,” Ford sobbed, dropping his arms and straining just to remain on his feet, “ I thought it would go away because…  Because I have you and Dipper and Mabel and Fiddleford now.  But it won’t go away.  I feel horrible because I can’t make it go away!”  
  
“Whoa, Ford, hold up there,” he coached, taking a step back over groaning boards but keeping his grip on Ford’s shoulders, holding him steady and upright, “Take a breath.  Now, tell me.  What is it?  What won’t go away?”  
  
“It should have been me!” he blurted, his hands raised over his chest, fingers stiffened and spread almost as if pleading, “It should have been-”  
  
“What should have?  You mind bein’ a little less cryptic?”  Stan asked with a tilt of his head.  
  
“It should have been me, not you,” he answered, his arms drooping at his sides, head hung in its own shadow.    
  
“Yeah, you’re gonna have to elaborate on that…”  
  
“You shouldn’t have had to pay for my mistakes!  It should have been me,” he looked up, eyes raw and reddened, dripping in grief and regret.  He pulled away, pointing to himself in pure disgust, “It was supposed to be me!  I’m the one who screwed up.  I’m the one who should have-”  
  
He swayed to the side and Stan reached out to catch him.  He dug through the inner breast pocket of his coat, retrieved a clean handkerchief, and pressed it into Ford’s hand.  While Ford blotted the white cloth beneath his nose, Stan took advantage of the pause and tried to reason through things, “We talked about that.  It couldn’t have been you ‘cause ‘a that plate in yer head. ‘Sides, it all turned out okay in the end.”  
  
Stan shrugged leaving Ford wondering how he could be so flippant about it. _It wasn’t fair!  He shouldn’t have had to give up so much…  to effectively die because of me!_  He clenched his teeth over a fresh surge of guilt, continuing before he’d successfully quelled it, letting it overflow in his hitching sentences, “But you shouldn’t have had to do all of that!  You and the kids and this town should never have had to go through all of that!  If I’d only been a few minutes earlier…  If I only could have taken down his…  his monsters faster…”  His words trailed off as he stepped back, his clenched fist propping him up against the shop’s splintered siding.  
  
“Whoa, slow down.  What are you talking about?  Gotten where faster?”  
  
“And then I was angry…” he spoke calmly, trying to rein his outburst back in again.  He turned and leaned his back against the protesting boards, sniffling and looking up to the sky, the sun glinting over his dampened cheeks, “So angry that I was blinded by it, that I couldn’t see what you did for me.”  
  
“Angry about what?” Stan asked turning back to his discarded fishing pole, ready to reel in the line and call it a day.  Though he’d taken three steps away, he continued his questioning, hoping to get something resembling a real answer, “I mean, I got an idea…  The rift thingy being torn open an’ the fight we had that got you sucked into wherever you were in the first place an’ all that…  But other than that…  Ford, you’re not making much sense here.”  
  
“I…  I can’t,” his head hung low, his hands slipping under his glasses and covering his eyes, the handkerchief draped between his fingers.  He spoke softly, the sound muffled further beneath his palms as he sank to the dock, his knees drawn close to his chest, diminishing his entire presence within the shop’s shadow, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”  
  
“Oh now you have to tell me,” Stan said, reaching for his fishing pole, glad for the first time that day that the fish seemed impervious to his lures.  He turned back to Ford and added almost playfully, hoping it might help ease his brother’s apprehension, “You can’t leave me hanging like that.”    
  
“No, it’s…  it doesn’t matter.  It’s not important.  We’re here now.  We’re safe…  I…  I’m fine,” He sniffled and looked up to Stan, his crooked smile and the wad of white cloth clutched between shaking hands doing absolutely nothing to convince him it was true.    
  
“Clearly,” Stan snorted, turning back to his brother, “Yes that’s exactly the swollen eyes and red nose of a man who’s ‘fine’,” he sighed and exchanged his sarcasm for exasperation, “Ford, you promised you’d try to stop doing this.  Remember that I know now that any time you refuse to talk about something it’s ‘cause ya’ don’t wanna make me feel bad or guilty or whatever and now we’ve reached the point of no return.  I’m gonna feel guilty whether you talk or not.  So…  I can’t guarantee I won’t feel worse if you do, but…  I’ll try.  I’ll try to just listen.”  His line swayed and the bobber dipped up and down over the lake’s rippled surface as he shifted the fishing pole to one hand.  With empathy in his eyes, he suggested, “Come on, you wanna go inside and…”  
  
Ford shook his head, drawing his knees closer to his chest.  
  
“Ok, that’s ok. We can stay here.  But you’re not getting out of telling me what this is all about.  I can stand here with a line out all day if that’s what it takes-  Or not!” Stan’s calm cajoling switched to a shout as something tugged at his line, “Whoa!”  He whipped around, gripping the pole in both hands, “I think we got somethin’ big here!”  
  
The handkerchief fluttered from Ford’s grasp as he scrambled to his feet.  In two bounds he was beside Stan, hands clasped above his, steadying the taut bowing of the fishing pole.  He blinked through drying tears, through the stinging soreness of his eyelids, through the weight of his mistakes pressing down on his head and resting heavy on his chest and shoulders, and channeled all of his strength and frustration into hanging on while Stan reeled in the line.    
  
“You weren’t kidding!” Ford’s voice cracked with his attempt to lighten the mood, or at least distract himself, “What is this, a Gobblewonker?!”  
  
“Ha, you wish!  Whoa!”  Stan braced one foot against a metal-capped post, desperate for more leverage.    
  
“Easy…  easy,” Ford coached as Stan struggled against the reel, “Almost…!”  
  
“Argh!” they shouted in unison, stumbling backwards at the loss of tension as the line snapped.  They landed with dual thuds, Stan on his backside and Ford bracing himself with both arms beside him.    
  
“Aw, you gotta be kidding me!  That was an expensive lure!” Stan shouted, shaking his fist as if the aquatic thief could see the gesture.  
  
“Assuming you paid for it,” Ford chuckled with a quirked eyebrow, his reddened, dripping nose contradicting the switch in mood.  
  
“Hey I paid…  oh no wait…  Yeah okay.  Ya got me on that one.  I promise it wasn't from Tate's shop though!  But still… I wonder what that was,” Stan mused, picking up his fishing pole and frowning at the snapped line, “Always a bit disappointing ta’ lose the big one, eh, Ford?”  
  
“Yes…  That, it is,” Ford answered with a sigh.  Rather than regain his footing, he shifted into the lengthening shadow cast by the shop and leaned against its side.  He settled in, his back pressed against it and one arm draped over a folded knee as he looked up to the periwinkle expanse above, “I almost had him…” He added, cringing at himself, his skin folding along the wrinkle lines around his eyes.  
  
“Had who?”  Stan asked, grunting as he sat beside his twin, resting the fishing pole over his lap.  
  
“Bill.”  
  
Stan fell silent.  
  
“He hunted me for thirty years while I hunted for a way to destroy him,” Ford said, his hand reaching out for the discarded handkerchief.    
  
“Dipper mentioned you had a weapon that was supposed to be able to do that,” he said, reaching up for his hat, and lowering it, relieved to have something to fidget with as Ford spoke.  
  
“I did.  I tried to use it to defeat Bill when he first tore the rift open and entered our dimension but...  I missed the shot.”  
  
“That's what Dipper told me.  He said it's how you were captured in the first place.”  
  
“It was.  I failed again,” he grumbled, folding both arms across his knees and resting his forehead on them.  “It took all those years and help from a Fiddleford from another dimension to develop and design the quantum destabilizer and when it came down to the final shot...  The thing that could have ended all of that mess right then and there and prevented anyone else from falling victim to him...  And I missed.”  
  
At a loss for how to comfort his brother about demons, otherworldly escapades, and the missed shot, he took a stab at a less obvious point, “Another Fiddleford?  Yeesh.  I lose enough patience dealing with just one of ‘em…  But…  That must have been hard for you…”  
  
“It…  was complicated,” he lifted his head and answered.  He weaved the hem of the handkerchief between his fingers, mirroring Stan’s fumbling with the floppy brim of his hat as he explained, “To be honest, I didn’t ask much about him or his dimension’s version of you or myself.  But…  what I do know was that the major divergence between our worlds was that the Stan of that dimension took my journal away and we…  They…  The alternate Fiddleford and my alternate self, were able to stabilize the portal and cut off Bill’s access to it.”  
  
“So…  if I had done what you said back then, Bill would never have gotten into our er…  dimension?”  
  
“Mmm,” Ford barely made a noise of agreement, wishing he had something more useful to say.  
  
“…And you’d probably be some big famous scientist by now?”  
  
“Well…  yes but,” he blurted out the but, trying to derail any self-degrading thoughts brewing in his brother’s mind, “If that had happened, Bill would still be out there somewhere.  The outcome in that dimension might have been ideal for them but not for the multiverse as a whole.  Their Stanley never had the chance to defeat him and their…  me…  thought he had.”  
  
“This uh…  This is kinda scramblin’ my head a bit,” Stan said, scratching the side of his head as if to illustrate his point.  
  
“Yes…  That’s precisely why I didn’t press for too many answers while I was a guest in their dimension.”  
  
“So…  you…,” Stan tugged his hat back onto his head as if he hoped he could hide beneath it, “you must really hate me for-”  
  
“No!”  Ford interrupted, “No.  Granted, I wasn’t exactly happy about it at the time, but now…?  Now I see that it was for the best.  If you hadn’t fought me about my journal that day, Bill could still be out there bringing harm to other worlds.  I suppose someone else may have eventually stepped up and done exactly what you did but, I’m glad to know that he’s gone now…  And…  More importantly, I don’t know what happened to the alternate you in that reality.  Maybe our alternate selves reconciled, but there’s also a chance we didn’t and… if we had followed a similar path in our reality and never reconciled, well,” he rubbed the back of his head, searching for the right words, finally settling for, “let’s just say I prefer this outcome.”  
  
Stan cracked a smile at his brother’s attempted admission of emotion.    
  
“…  But it’s more complicated than that…”  
  
“Of course it is.  I think complicated is your trademark,” Stan chuckled.  “I mean…  Sorry, I was just kidding, Ford…  I don’t actually mean that or well maybe I do but it’s not a bad thing!  It’s part of why I’m glad you’re back.”  
  
“T-thanks,” Ford smiled, “I-It’s okay.  I…  I know, now, to assume you mean well.  I still can’t work it out when it comes to other people but…  I know with you and the kids and Fiddleford, that I shouldn’t take things like that to heart, that it’s just kidding around.  I don’t want you to feel like you have to walk on eggshells around me or anything.”  
  
“Meet in the middle, right?”  Stan said with a relieved exhale.  
  
“Yes,” Ford nodded.  
  
“So, complicated things?” Stan urged, trying not to sound as if he was interrogating his brother.  
  
“Fiddleford.  He was definitely better off in that world,” Ford said with a sigh, “He didn’t erase his mind, the only time he ever saw the dump was when he went searching for building supplies…  and I saw a photo of him with Tate.”  
  
“Was he still married in that other world?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Did you and him or er…  your other selves ever get together?”  
  
“I don’t think so.  It looked like they were both too busy to take a breath.  And, honestly, if that was the case my alternate self may not have spent enough time with the Dipper and Mabel of that world and if that idea in itself isn’t already distressing enough, add to it that he and the alternate Fiddleford may never have discovered asexuality.  They may have continued growing increasingly bitter and lonely, never understanding that there _wasn’t_ something ‘wrong’ with them.”  
  
“True.  So, do you think he was happy or not?”  
  
“I…  I don’t know.  He seemed to be.”  
  
“Wow.  That’s pretty heavy,” Stan sighed, draping his hands over his knees, “I…  I honestly don’t know what to say other than, without knowing, you can’t assume.  Maybe he was happy.  If it was a different world, doesn’t that also mean he could have been a bit different than he is in this er…  reality?  Timeline?  Dimension?  Maybe what made him happy there and what makes him happy here are two different things.”  
  
“…  Maybe.”  
  
“Damn it, Ford,” he blurted, his nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger, “is this the kind of crap you’re thinkin’ about all the time?”  
  
“I suppose so.  But it’s… more than that.  It’s all layered and intertwined and-”  
  
“Wow.  No wonder you have trouble sleeping and expressing feelings and junk.  You’re too busy imagining how other people feel and how they’d feel if things played out differently or how they could feel in all of these different outcomes.  Damn it, Ford, you can’t be responsible for everyone’s happiness.  Yeah you have an influence on it like we all do but you can’t kill yourself worrying over it.”  
  
“But, I did have a negative influence on it for so many years,” he bit his lip, refusing to let the end of that thought out. _But it’s probably true.  They’d probably all have been better off without me._  
  
Stan sighed, “Sometimes shit happens.  And sometimes people don’t know how to pick themselves up from a fall.  And sometimes, people who need help don’t get it.  Sometimes there’s something stopping us from helping someone else.  And sometimes…  we hurt each other.  We’re all just doing the best we can with what we have at the time.  I think you’re already doing the best you can do for Fiddleford.  You helped him get back on his feet again and you opened yourself up to a relationship with him.  I mean, that couldn’t have been easy for you.”  
  
“It…  wasn’t.  Let’s just say I looked a lot like this a few times,” he pointed to his reddened, irritated nose and puffy eyes, dampness welling in their corners.  
  
“See?  And you’re doing the best you can for me and the kids, you’ve bent over backwards trying to make us happy.  But, ya’ gotta know that we want you to be happy too.”  
  
“Thanks, Stan,” he said, offering a smile.  
  
Stan savored the moment of comfortable silence which passed between them, watching the sun flicker across the lake in glinting specks and reveling in the crisp breeze ruffling his beard.  He would have been content to sit there for the rest of the day like that but he wasn’t going to let things go so easily just to preserve the temporary, shallow comfort.  With a cautiously spoken question, he dipped his toes back into uneasy territory, “So…  You said you only had one shot left on that weapon of yours.  What happened to the other shots?”  
  
“I had a plan,” Ford answered, speaking in slow, calculated words, “I was going to find a way back into Bill’s dimension and take him down once and for all.  He called his dimension The Nightmare Realm and it was exactly what it sounded like.  It was a world with no rules, where physics and time fluctuated of their own accord.  Because of its utter lawlessness, it was a doomed dimension, more like an unstable realm between worlds.  The only certainty there was its inevitable implosion and the only thing delaying that, was Bill, himself.”  
  
“That’s why he wanted to take over our world?  And he would have done the same thing here?”  
  
“Any world he could get his hands on, really.  Ours just happened to have a gullible fool like me living in it.  But essentially, Yes.”  
  
“Wait wait wait…  Hold up a minute,” Stan said, pinching his nose as a realization Ford seemed to be skirting around set in, “Let me get somethin’ straight here.  You made a weapon strong enough to take down that demonic triangle and you were taking the fight to him in his own upside-down Hell-dimension…”  
  
“…That was the plan.”  
  
“Knowing very well that it would implode without him keeping it taped together?”  
  
“I…” Ford hesitated as every hope that Stan would miss making that connection drained from him and the anxious need to tell him the truth stood triumphant.  He hung his head and answered meekly, “Yes.”  
  
“I should smack you,” Stan huffed, the disgruntled edge to his voice matching his knitted brows.  They lifted and his tone softened as he continued, “but I won’t…  because…  I’m glad you’re finally telling me this,” his hands flopped over his folded knees as he looked to his twin, “Shit, Ford, you were going to kill yourself to take him down?”  
  
With his head still hung in shadow, Ford opened his mouth to reply but when no words emerged, his jaw closed, his lower lip clenched between his teeth.  
  
“Damn,” Stan sighed, filling in the blanks, “So…  what stopped you?”  
  
“You did,” he answered, looking to Stan with a weak smile.  
  
“Uh…  wanna run that by me again?”  
  
“You stopped me.  I fought through every monster and nightmare he threw at me until I had that one shot left.  I was almost there, he was in my sight and… the portal opened.”  
  
Stan leaned back against the wall, his thoughts clashing and churning.  As if thinking aloud, he muttered, “You spent thirty years working up to that moment and I…  Now I get it.  I get why the first thing you did was punch me…  But…” His clenched jaw slackened and his cheeks relaxed as he continued in a softened tone, “I’m not sorry.”  
  
“You shouldn’t be.  You…  you did save me,” Ford admitted, “But…  at the same time…  I…  I wonder if…  If things would have been better if I’d just made it there a little earlier…”  
  
All at once, Stan’s heart sank and his blood burned.  His head spun as fury fought grief, the results exploding in a yell, thoughts spilling out before he could even clearly think them, “And let me go through thirty years of trying to get that damned contraption of yours working again just to have your dead body fall through?!  Or worse…  nothing at all…?  Nothing so that I’d always wonder what happened to you?  So I’d keep blaming myself for you being lost or dead?!”  Tears pricked at his eyes, threatening to douse the fire burning in his cheeks.  
  
“But then you and the kids never would have had to go through all that you did…  Because of me and my mistakes.  All I did was fall into your lives one day and…  And turn everything upside-down.”  
  
“No one ever said I was fond of them being right-side-up…” Stan retorted with a snort, smothering the smolder in his cheeks.  
  
“But-”  
  
“No.  I don’t want to think about the alternate whatevers where some other version of me…  Didn’t get you back.”  
  
“…  Me neither.”  
  
“Crap…  those uh… Those actually exist, don’t they?”  Stan asked with wide, horrified eyes.  
  
“They do.  I never saw it happen but I know there were other versions of myself out there that didn’t survive.  And…  other versions of you.”  
  
“Um.  What?”  
  
“There were worlds where you were the one who fell through instead of me.  Some where both of us did.  And some where Fiddleford didn’t have the rope tied around his leg and was lost,” he shuddered at the thought, stopping himself before mentioning the worlds where one of the kids fell through.  
  
“Wow.  That…  that’s a lot to think about.  But, it sounds to me like there are infinite possibilities and we’re lucky to have followed one that led us all back to each other.”  
  
“Yeah…  Yeah we are,” he wanted to sound happy, wanted to appreciate everything his brother was suggesting, but wanting it and being incapable of it tipped him back into the swirling oblivion he’d never quite climbed out of.  He grit his teeth over the inflating lump in his throat, looked to his twin, and choked out, “Stan…  I…  don’t know what to do now.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“…This…  Wasn’t the plan,” his head tilted down as he continued, his soft murmur blending with the lapping of waves below the dock, as if he hoped Stan wouldn’t hear him, “I…  I wasn’t supposed to still be alive.”  
  
“Are you…  are you saying you wish you weren’t?” his gravely voice hitched as he spoke.  
  
“…I…  don’t know.  I don’t know!” his hands cupped his face, tipping his glasses up into his hair and muffling his words as he continued, “Stanley, I…  I have so much trouble trying to do things everyone else can do without even thinking about it.  Conversations, kidding around, just…  being human in general.  I lived out in the woods alone for years, working and researching but mostly…  Mostly I was just…  hiding.  Hiding from all the noise and the smells, and the lights, and the people who could tell just by looking at me that I was simultaneously too much of a freak and too boring to bother with because,” he paused, soft sobs shaking his shoulders before he could catch his breath to elaborate, “Because all of the things that are fun to them are maddening and overloading to me!  I just can’t handle it.  And I can’t handle that I can’t handle it.  And it’s even worse now that I’m stuck thirty years in the past!  Stanley, I couldn’t even count out change today because I forgot how money works here!  Because I froze up when one guy I don’t even know was staring at me!”  
  
Stan reached out carefully and rested his fingertips on Ford’s shoulder.  When he was sure his brother found comfort in the contact, he let his palm settle there.  “Hey,” he spoke in a husky whisper, “That’s alright.  You’re having some trouble adjusting.  I think that’s more than understandable.  You’ll get there.  And ya got me and the kids and Fiddleford to help you out.”  
  
“Fiddleford...” Ford sighed, his lips quaking as he attempted to shift thoughts into words, “Stanley, I...  I am a horrible boyfriend!”  
  
“Er, what?  Why do you say that?”  
  
“Aside from having no understanding of how any of this works and missing any and all social cues related to it, I...  Shouldn't our relationship have helped this feeling?  I don't want to hurt him and I do want to be with him as much as possible but...”  
  
“Whoa, hey now.  Relationships aren't some miracle cure.  And, it's alright that things aren't perfect between you.  No relationship ever is.  They take a lot of hard work.  Er...  Not that I'd really know, none a' mine ever lasted long enough to tell.”  
  
“I'm sorry...”  
  
“Don't be.  Ain't your fault.  All I'm sayin is it's just gonna take some time fer you to get used to things.  And, we're here ta help you,” Stan said, placing a hand on Ford's shoulder.  
  
“I-  I just hate this!”  
  
“It’s okay.  It’s alright to need help some-”  
  
“It’s not that.  I hate…  I hate that I miss it.  I never thought I would but I do.  I shouldn’t because it was constantly terrifying but…  I do,” Ford dropped his head, grabbing fistfuls of his curls in frustration.  
  
“Miss what?”  
  
“Being out there,” he gestured to the sky, to the universes hidden beyond it.  
  
“…  Oh.”  
  
“Don’t get me wrong,” he stuttered, shaking his head, “I…  I’m glad to be back with you and the kids and Fiddleford.  I really am.  But…  Even though there were a lot of hard times out there, a lot of times when I was barely holding on, wondering when I’d encounter edible food or clean water again, times when I was nearly killed, when bounty hunters managed to catch me and I barely escaped, times when I didn’t and I was stuffed into a jumpsuit and thrown into a cell until some stroke of luck helped me break out, it…  It wasn’t all bad.  Sure there were dimensions that attacked or outright rejected me for not fitting in but there were also some where everything was so mixed, so full of diversity that for once, I felt like I could blend into the crowd.  You’d think it would be overwhelming but somehow, it wasn’t.  It was fascinating.”  
  
“That’s probably why it wasn’t overwhelming to you.  Because it aligned with your interests,”  Stan squeezed the words through the guilt rising within him, through the urge to cry out and berate himself for forcing his brother’s return to a world he might not have missed. _Shut up.  Just listen to him.  He’s finally talking to you.  Don’t ruin it with your dumb self-hatred._  
  
Ford sniffled, dabbing the handkerchief beneath his nose as he continued, “And perhaps…  not feeling judged all the time…” He lifted his hand, staring at its palm side through blurred and fogged glasses, six fingers trembling despite his efforts to steady them.  Annoyed at their disobedience, he balled them into a fist, dropping his hand to his lap as it felt like more of his soul spilled out into the lake lapping below him in a waterfall of words, “Most lifeforms out there didn’t know exactly what humans look like, so to them, that’s all I was; a random human that no one looked at twice or questioned…  unless they _were_ bounty hunters, but, I digress.  I always had trouble with social undertones and unspoken rules of interaction here but out there, there were some dimensions where there really weren’t any rules because everyone was so different.  Everyone was awkward because no one understood each other’s customs so we interacted under the assumption that everyone was struggling, that everyone had their own individual preferences and there was no way we could know what they were without telling each other outright.”  
  
“So you had to be very literal about things all the time.  Yeah.  I could see where that would be easier for you,” Stan said with a nod.  
  
“But, it was more than that.  I met others out there who were burned by him, trying to escape or destroy him and, though I never got to spend much time with them, it was nice to just…  Have a conversation sometimes, to have that connection.  But,” he closed his eyes, struggling to stifle his outburst and failing, “But more than anything, I…  I felt like I had purpose out there.  Maybe I would never be able to enjoy what other people do, maybe I’d never have connections like them but it didn’t matter because it felt like there was finally a reason for being like this, that maybe all of that struggling might amount to something in the end.  I was so focused on defeating him, on seeking revenge and redemption, that it consumed my entire existence.  It was the fuel that kept me moving forward, kept me going.  And…  to be honest…  the idea of not making it through a final encounter with him was a little comforting.  I could just disappear and no one would remember me or the horrible mistakes I made.”  
  
“I remembered you.”  
  
“Thank you, Stanley.  I know it doesn’t sound like it right now but I really do appreciate it.  And I _am_ glad to be back.  It’s just difficult when so many of the things I missed have changed and when the things I struggled with…  haven’t.”  
  
“Yeah.  I guess I get it,” Stan shrugged.  
  
“I just… wasn’t ready for this.  I…  I don’t know how to take a break…  how to stop and enjoy life the way you can.  I feel like I need to be constantly doing something, like I can’t settle down.”  
  
“Is that why you still wanted to sail with me?”  
  
“I’d be lying if I said no.  But it’s not the only reason.  I did want you to have your dream.  But I can’t help feeling like I need to do something to make up for surviving…”  
  
“Wait.  You mean like that crap people say about how ‘it’s such a miracle that you’re still alive!  There must be a reason!” Stan spread his arms in a melodramatic mimicry of the religious figures he'd seen on TV, “God kept you alive for a reason!’”  
  
“Yeah…  I guess something like that.”  
  
“Well that’s bullshit.  You’re alive because it worked out that way.  All you gotta do is just live.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Well, I guess that’s what we gotta work on.  You’re having trouble adjusting to everyday life.  That’s pretty understandable.  I mean, seriously, Ford.  This is probably the first time since we were kids that you don't have some life-consuming goal ahead of you.  Even then you constantly worked on the Stan O War.  Then college, then your research, then the portal, then destroying...  Him.  Of course you're feeling lost.  I think we can work through it, though.  But, Ford, I gotta ask. Does some part of you really feel like you would have rather died out there or…  or that you don’t want to be alive anymore?  Is that what you were talking about when you came out here babbling about something that won’t go away?”  
  
Ford paused.  It would be easy to lie and say “Of course not.” but something inside him didn't want to.  He needed to let it out for once, needed to tell someone.  He let out a slow breath and answered honestly, “Sometimes.  Sometimes when things get overwhelming or when I don’t know how to react to something that should be simple or when I don’t realize someone is merely teasing and take it seriously…  Sometimes I…  It’s not so much that I would want to go through with anything as it is that I wish I could just…  not exist.”    
  
Stan's eyes widened as his brother spoke.  He licked his lips and prepared to level with him.    
  
“Ford,” his heart sank at the serious tone of his brother's voice, “You gotta talk to our therapist about this.  That…  that’s suicidal ideation.”  
  
“What?” he asked with a quirked eyebrow, “No.  Ha ha, no.  I’m not…  It isn’t.  I just said I’d never actually…”  
  
“You don’t have to!” he lifted himself to his knees, crouching in front of Ford to look straight at him, almost disappointed when his eyes darted down and away, avoiding looking into Stan's, but respecting it regardless.  His tone strengthened in severity as he continued, “It screws around with your everyday life.  It messes with your decisions on things you don’t even notice like what you eat and how much sleep you get.”  
  
_Oh…_  Ford thought, his eyes widening as the idea sank in.   _The whole reason for my diet and exercise routine was because, unless I adhered to a strict schedule, I would never actually do those things…_  
  
“And,” Stan continued, “searching for anomalies and staring down dangerous monsters and using yourself as a damn human shield!  Ford, please!  You gotta promise me you’ll talk to our therapist about this!”  
  
“…Alright.”  
  
“Maybe you just need your meds adjusted or something…  but yeah.  We can work on this.  It might take a while and it might take a lot of trial and error but, we’ll find the right way of managing it.  I mean, it took being institutionalized and going through several types and combinations of medicine to find what works for me but I’m…  Wait.  What?” Stan paused as Ford’s answer registered, “Alright?  That…  that’s all?  Just…  Alright?  No fight or anything?”  
  
“N-no.  I…  I’ll do it,” he said, his eyes flashing up and catching Stan's for a split second before darting back to the curled and chipped dock boards.  
  
“Really?  That was too easy to be true.  Actually, I’m still surprised that you agreed so easily to seeing a therapist in the first place.  Honestly after what happened in the ER, you're lucky we were here and not in some other town.  They probably would have institutionalized you right away.”  
  
“…You’re lucky you didn’t have to see it.  Dipper had to.  And Soos and Melody and half of the hospital staff probably…”  Ford's voice trailed off as his hand traced the raised grain in the graying board beside him.  
  
“Uh…  see what?”  
  
He looked up, eyes fixed somewhere on the trees at the horizon, “When Soos, Melody, and the kids took me to the hospital, Mabel sat with me in the back seat.  She was amazing, Stanley, she really was.  But…  her hair, her sweater, her hands…  Everything…  She was covered in blood.   _My blood!_  I have never seen anything so…   _WRONG_ in my life and…  and that’s saying something.  And then Dipper…  Dipper washed my coat.  He washed _blood_ out of my coat.  It makes me sick just thinking about what they went through because of me!  Because of this mess in my head!  I...” he paused, steeling his nerve for what he knew he needed to say, “I heard you talking, saying that you were afraid I could have hurt the kids when I was hallucinating.”  
  
“Ford...”  Stan's eyes widened in horror, “I-I'm sorry I should have trusted that you wouldn't-”   
  
“Don't be.  You weren't wrong,” Ford interrupted, reaching forward to rest a hand on his brother's shoulder, “You were absolutely right and you did what you had to to protect them.  But, it scared me.  I NEVER want to hurt them.  And if I didn't agree to get help...  who knows where I'd be.  Like you said, it could be an institute or even jail.  And, I'm grateful that you and the kids were there for me and didn't let anything like that happen.  But, I don't want anyone to be afraid that I might hurt them ever again.  If I ever get like that again, I want you to do what you have to for everyone's safety.  But...  Mostly...  I want to get better.  I want to be better for them and you and Fiddleford.  Even if there’s no actual cure, even if it’s a struggle, even if there are still bad days, I want to try.”  
  
“Then you’ve already started on the right road.  But…  Look I don’t want you feelin’ bad about this or nothing but…  Do you think we gotta talk to the kids about getting them some help?”  
  
“They already are.”  
  
“Oh,” Stan said in a sullen, downtrodden tone, “How come they never mentioned it to me?”  
  
“They didn’t actually tell me either,”  Ford explained, “I overheard it when they were talking at the hospital one day.”  
  
“Damn, those doctors weren't kidding when they said they had trouble sedating you.”  
  
“Indeed.  I couldn’t move or react but I could hear fragments of things sometimes.  Anyway, I heard Dipper and Mabel mention that they have a therapist back home that’s been helping them.  They said it’s how they knew I was having flashbacks and how they knew what to do when they happened.  They never mentioned anything because they didn’t want us to worry about them.  And probably because…  they’re good kids who didn’t want me to feel worse than I already do…”  
  
“Why do you say that?”  
  
“Because I’m the one who caused everything that happened to them.  Even this.  I tried to repress everything and ended up setting off an explosive because I thought I was fighting _him_ again, because 210 figured out exactly what triggered the most fear in me!  And the kids had to see it all,” Ford looked up, lost in thought for a moment, “Ah, if only I’d still had that armor Jheselbraum gave me.  I would have been wearing it and that explosion wouldn’t have left anything more than a few superficial bruises.”  
  
“Armor?  Jhesel- whatever…?”  
  
“She was an oracle who saved my life…  more than once and gave me the resolve to keep fighting.  She also gave me what looked like a light t-shirt which one might wear as an undershirt but it was as strong as the medieval armor from our dimension.”  
  
“So, what happened to it?”  
  
“I…  I traded it for a crucial part for my quantum destabilizer.  The dealer saw me take a blaster hit square in the back and wouldn’t take anything less than whatever had saved my life.  I tried to steal the part or find it from other dealers but when it came down to the end and I’d still had no luck," he shrugged, "I made the deal.”  
  
“Damn it, Ford.  What…  What the hell?!" Stan shouted, his fist pounding against the dock, "You…  You traded the thing that was supposed to protect you?!  You really were ready to…  ”     
  
“I…  I’m sorry…”  
  
“You don’t gotta be sorry.  You just gotta promise me yer gonna get help!”  Stan pleaded, lifting himself to his feet with a grunt.  
  
“I will.  I promise,” Ford said, holding out a shaky hand, "deal?"

Stan looked to him with wide eyes, the gravity and sheer trust of the gesture striking him.

He reached out and grabbed Ford's hand, shaking it firmly then using it to help him stand, "deal," he replied, patting his shoulder.  
  
Ford dusted himself off, pocketed Stan's handkerchief and asked, “Should...  should we mention anything to the kids about knowing they're getting help too?”  
  
“Someday.  It's better that we talk about it all eventually but for now, I'm just glad to know they are getting it.  And you,” he pointed to Ford with a sly smile that softened as he continued, "I'm always here for you.  If you have thoughts like that again, I want you to talk to me.  Maybe I ain't a therapist but I can still listen and I'll still try to help.  You're not alone anymore."  
  
"Thanks, Stan," he said with a light smile, wrapping his arm over his brother's shoulder, "Same for you.  Like you said earlier, we got each other."


	4. Hey.  Thanks.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tate and Ford have a brief but much-needed conversation.

Ford still found himself lost in the halls of McGucket manor more times than not.  He'd take a wrong turn into a wood-paneled corridor and find himself staring out the window of a turret he never knew existed or in a closet bigger than the mystery shack.  He swore the manor must move of it's own volition, like the stairwells in the castle-turned-magical-school in one of the book series Dipper and Mabel recommended he read.  (He might have gotten a little carried away and read them all in less than two weeks.)  
  
This time, a wrong turn had led him to a red-carpeted hall lined with doorways to various bedrooms.  At the end nearest him was a door with a 'keep out' sign posted upon it.  Tate's bedroom.  At the far end was a door with a raccoon scrawled on it in paint.  Fiddleford's bedroom and beside it, the room Ford was slowly moving some of his belongings into.    
__  
Well, at least I know where I am this time.  He thought. _Better than when I was actually looking for this hall and ended up finding the indoor pool.  Too bad it wasn't the library, though._  
  
His thoughts screeched to a halt as he heard faint footsteps approaching  ( _Boots.  Heavy ones.)_ clomping up the stairs at the far end of the hall.   _Not fiddleford...  He doesn't wear shoes...  ever...  Tate, perhaps?_   His hand hovered over the blaster pressed against his hip, just in case.  He took a step back, debating on retreating, on tip-toeing his way down the stairs behind him and avoiding what was sure to be an awkward encounter at best.   _But what if it's not Tate?  What if it's...  No, don't be silly, of course it's him.  What time is it?  Probably around 6 or so?  Yes, that's probably him getting home from work._  
  
Despite his father's offers to fully support him, Tate claimed to like working at his ramshackle bait shop beside the lake.  He said he enjoyed the quiet, being near nature, and fishing from the dock and talking with some of the regulars on the slow days.  Fiddleford had even offered to pay for an expansion or remodel, though Ford imagined his offer to do most of the work himself might have been Tate's deciding factor in his muttered, "No, thanks, dad."  He probably didn't fancy the idea of his shop to having robotic legs and a gun sword.  Ford, though, had chuckled at the thought, almost wanting to help build such a thing himself.  
  
As the clomps drew closer, Ford made his decision.  He forced his hand to relax, easing his anxiety with a slow exhale.   _I do need to speak with him.  Maybe this time I can._  The few encounters they'd shared in the past were either with Fiddleford present or consisted of nothing more than a respectful nod to one-another.  While part of him would be content to keep things simple, he knew he needed to say something, to apologize for the past, to try to break the ice between them.   _The man is your boyfrien- gosh that still feels weird to say that.  Weird, but good.  Anyway, he's your boyfriend's son.  You need to at least attempt to mend things and get along better.  Not that we don't get along now.  I suppose considering everything, we're doing pretty well but, it could be better._  
  
He took a step forward, trying to walk the way he would under average circumstances, as Tate emerged from the stairwell.  The two neared each other and Tate nodded, tipping his cap, as usual.  Ford returned the nod, cursing himself internally for his failure to find any words at all.  
  
Tate's slouched shuffle hesitated as he passed him. Time stood still as Ford's stride stopped mid-step.  He looked up, swallowing hard, trying to clear the way for the right words to form.  He turned, ready to spew out apologies but before he could utter a single 'I'm sorry' Tate spoke up.    
  
"Hey," he began, his voice revealing no sign of emotion.  He took a quarter turn back, his gaze directed at his muddied boot as he mumbled, "Thanks."  
  
Ford blinked, his mind a haze of confusion.  He barely managed to stutter out his response, "W-what for?"  
  
Tate's shoulders cracked as he rolled them back into a relaxed posture, lifting his head to answer.  His hat masked his eyes as usual but Ford swore he cracked a half-smile.  "Your niece and nephew did a lot to help dad but, he didn't really start acting like himself again until you came back.  You got him back on his feet again.  I couldn't do in years what you did in a matter of days."  
  
"Oh my.  Well um, you're welcome, I suppose.  But, I must apologize for being the reason he experienced such difficulties in the first place.  I am sincerely sorry."  
  
"...  Not going to lie.  I was mad at you for most of my life.  At both you and him.  But he still tried.  He tried to be there for me and, for as many things as he forgot, he never once forget me.  Even during the divorce, even during the worst times, I'd still get a card and a gift on every birthday and every holiday.  He showed up for every graduation and ceremony even if all he did was sit in the back, I could see he was there.  But it was hard.  There was only so much I could do for him, only so much he'd let me do.  But I know it wasn't actually your fault," he said, shrugging his shoulders.  
  
"Thank you. And thank you for being there for him when I couldn't," Ford answered.  "I-  I hope you don't mind that we're together now."  
  
"I don't," he said, turning to his bedroom door and clutching the gilded latch, "I'm glad you are.  You make him happy."  
  
Ford smiled, a warmth bubbling deep within him, and replied, "He makes me happy, too."


End file.
